erman  Lyrics 

TRANSLATED  BY 

Henry  Phillips  yr 


I 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/germanlyrics01phil 


With  the  Compliments  of 
the  Author 


German  Lyn 


TRANSLATED  BY 


Henry  Phillips  yr 


e^ret  bie  Steber! 
©ie  finb  gleidj  ben  guten  £Ijaten 

GOETHE 


philadelphia 
Printed  for  Private  Circulation  Only 

1892 


PRES3  OF 

MacCalla  &  Company 
philadelphia 


DEDICATED 
TO 

Hon.  Frederick  Fraley,  LL.D., 

PRESIDENT  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHICAL  SOCIETY, 
AS  A  MARK  OF 
RESPECT  AND  ESTEEM. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 


The  versions  contained  in  the  present  volume 
were  prepared  at  the  time  of  the  impression  made 
upon  the  translator  by  his  reading  of  the  originals. 
The  only  plan  of  selection  that  has  been  followed 
out  has  been  the  exclusion  of  matter  previously 
published  by  him.  Some  of  these  poems  have 
already  appeared  in  a  mutilated  condition  in  a 
publication  over  which  he  had  no  control. 


Philadelphia, 
1811  Walnut  Street, 
May,  1892. 


ERRATUM. 


Page  80,  et  seq. — For  Lundesmann  read  Landesmann. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Allmers,  Hermann:  page 
Field  Solitude,  9 

Bechstein,  L. : 

The  Dead  Ride  Fast,  9 

Blomberg,  Hugo  von: 

Tranquil  Heart,    .       .       .       .       .       .        .  II 

BODENSTEDT,  FRIEDERICH  : 

After  the  Storm,    .       .       .       .        .       .       .  .11 

Sedan,  12 

Summer  Night,  13 

BOETTGER,  ADOLPH  : 

The  Moonbeam's  Ray  Fell  on  the  Lily's  Dew,  .  .  14 
Brachman,  Louise  : 

The  Song  of  the  Steadfast  Knight,  .  .  .  15 
Christen,  Ada  : 

Want  15 

Creuznach,  Theodor  : 

The  Raven's  Meal,  16 

Dahn,  Felix: 

The  Amber  Witch  17 

The  March  of  the  Huns,  18 

The  Song  of  the  Legions,     .       .       .       .       .  .21 

The  Vampire,       .       .       .       .  .       .  .22 

ECKELMANN : 

The  Winter  Sun,  23 


ElCHRODT,  LUDWIG  :  PAGE. 

Song,    .       .       ;  '  24 

ElCHENDORFF,  JOSEPH,  BARON  VON  : 

The  Robber  Brethren,  24 

Ertingen,  Adolf: 

Swen  and  Gorm,  .......  .26 

Falkland,  Heinrich  : 

Human  Life,  27 

Fallersleben,  Hoffman  von  : 

Violet,  28 

Ferrand,  Edward  : 

The  Rose  Bush,    ........  28 

Fischer,  Johann  Georg: 

At  the  Daydawn,  ........  29 

Foerster,  Karl: 

Count  Ulrich,       .  30 

Fontane,  Theodore  : 

After  the  Storm,   32 

The  Fisher  Maid,   33 

The  Guest,   33 

Noontide,   34 

Sylvester  Night,   34 

The  Stuarts,   36 

James  Monmouth,   37 

Geibel,  Emanuel: 

Bothwell,  38 

Romance  of  the  Crocodile,  39 

Gerok,  Karl: 

The  Chargers  of  Gravelotte,  4° 

Gleim,  J.  W.  L. : 

Triolet,  42 

Goering,  Hugo  : 

The  Cradle-Coffin,  42 

Greiff,  Martin  : 

The  Deserted  One,  43 

In  the  Forest,  44 

2 


Greiff,  Martin  :  page. 

Starry  Night,   44 

Gryphius,  Andreas  : 

The  Dead  to  the  Living,   45 

Guell,  Frederick  : 

Nur  ein  Blick,   45 

Lilies  and  Roses,  ........  46 

Halm,  Friederich  : 

Mein  Herz  ich  will  Dich  Fragen,  47 

Upon  the  Lake,  47 

Hammer,  Julius: 

Spruch,       .........  48 

Hartman,  Moritz  : 

First  Snow,   48 

Silence,        .........  49 

Mist,   .'».      •       •  49 

Since  She  is  Dead,   50 

Haushofer,  Max: 

A  Restful  Place,  51 

Fly  Hence,  52 

Hebbel,  Friederich  : 

Sea-Shine,  52 

Herwegh,  George: 

On  Every  Human  Being's  Face,  53 

Song,  53 

Heyse,  Paul  : 

Love's  Service,  54 

The  Scarecrow,    .       .       .       .       .       .       .  -55 

Hoffman,  Friederich  : 

In  the  Wood,  55 

Hoelty,  L.  H.  C. : 

Sexton's  Song,  56 

Hornseck,  Friederich  : 

Xenie,  •       •      •  57 

Jordan,  W. : 

Lines  for  an  Album,     .       .       .       .       .       .  58 

3 


Kerner,  Justinus  :  PAGE. 

The  Dead  Miller,   58 

The  Four  Mad  Brethren,   59 

The  Two  Coffins,  ........  62 

Kletke,  Hermann  : 

The  Column  of  Memnon,      ......  63 

Knortz,  Karl: 

Admonition,        ........  64 

A  Bucolic  Poem,  .    64 

The  Dream,   65 

The  Elves,   66 

Indifference,   67 

The  King's  Daughter,   68 

Springtide  Song,  ........  69 

Kopisch,  August  : 

The  Story  of  Noah,   70 

The  First  Spree,    .       .       .       .       .       .       .  7 1 

Kugler,  Franz  Theodor  : 

Rudelsberg,  .........  72 

Leuthold,  Heinrich  : 

Falling  Leaves,     .   73 

Lingg,  Hermann: 

Forth  from  the  Days  that  are  no  more,  .       .       .  -74 

The  Black  Death,   74 

Home,   77 

Since  Thou  all  to  soon  hast  left  me,      .       .       .  -77 

Loewe,  Feodor  : 

A  Book  of  Riddles,  weird  and  odd,       ....  78 

Two  Kings,   78 

LORM,  HlERONYMUS  (HEINRICH  LANDESMANN)  : 

After  a  Century,   79 

The  Solution,   80 

Life,   80 

The  Lover,  .........  81 

The  Fatalist,   82 

The  Better  World,   82 

Man  and  Fate,   83 

The  Two  Wanderers,   83 

The  Way  of  the  World,   84 

4 


Mayer,  Karl:  page. 
Forest  Peace,       ........  84 

Bach  Geleite,       .       .  85 

Meissner,  Alfred  : 

Begegnen,     .       .       .       .       .       .  .  -85 

Night  on  the  Ocean,     .......  86 

The  Apostate,       .......  .86 

MlRZA  SCHAFFY  (BODENSTEDT)  : 

Ich  fiihle  deinen  Odem,   88 

Es  ist  ein  Wahn  zu  glauben,   89 

Die  helle  Sonne  leuchtet,      ......  89 

Ich  liebe  die  mich  lieben,     ......  90 

Moerike,  Eduard  : 

An  Hour  before  the  Day,  9° 

Mosen,  Julius  : 

The  Dreaming  Lake,  91 

Muller,  William  : 

Solitude,  91 

OSTERWALD,  WlLHELM  : 

The  Birch  Tree  bows  and  shakes  her  Head,  .  .  92 
May,  93 

Paoli,  Betty  : 

Gloomy  Solitude,  93 

Pfarrius,  Gustav: 

Mein  Lieb  ist  das  Bachlein,  94 

Ploennies,  Louise  von  : 

Es  hat  die  Nachtigall,  95 

The  Song  of  the  Noma,  95 

Pranger : 

Dirge,  97 

Rapp,  G. : 

The  Imperial  Graves,  98 

Redwitz,  Oscar  von  : 

Mein  Liebchen  ist  kein  Stoltzes  Schloss,  .  .  .  100 
So  lang  mein  Himmel  heiter  blauet,     ....  100 

5 


RlTTERSHAUS,  EMIL :  PAGE. 

What  is  Love  ?  101 

RODENBERG,  JULIUS  I 

At  Midnight,  ioi 

Rueckert,  Frederick  : 

Before  the  Doors,  102 

Ruperti,  Friederich  : 

The  Churchyard  Ride,  .......  103 

SCHEERER,  LUDWIG: 

Death  in  Light,  103 

SCHERENBERG,  ERNST : 

By  Night,  104 

SCHEURLIN,  GEORG  ! 

The  Fir  Tree,  104 

Happy  Death,  105 

Schmidt,  Klamer  : 

Contentment;  a  Triolet,  106 

Schults,  Adolph  : 

Discontent,  106 

Schwab,  Gustav: 

The  Captive,  107 

Seidl,  J.  G. : 

The  Dead  Soldier,  108 

Siebel,  Karl  : 

Love,   .110 

Undeception,        .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .ill 

Silberstein,  August: 

The  Peace  of  Home,     .       .       .       .       .       .  .ill 

Spitta,  C.  J.  P. : 

Joy  Through  Tears,  112 

Night's  Consolation,      .       .       .       .       .       .  .112 

Schach,  Adolph  F.,  Graf  von  : 

A  Song  of  Woe,  113 

Stieglitz,  Heinrich  : 

The  Watch  Tower,  113 

6 


Stoeber,  August  :  page. 
Spring,        .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .114 

Storm,  Theodore: 

The  City,   .       .  115 

Consolation,   115 

The  Dead,   116 

Doubt,         .       .   116 

Song  from  Immensee,    .       .       .       .       .       .  117 

Strachwitz,  Moritz,  Graf  von  : 

Frau  Hilda,  117 

Sie  hat  den  ganzen  Tag  getobt,     .       .       .       .  1 1 9 

Strauss,  David  F. : 

Aus  dem  Grabe,   .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .119 

Sturm,  Julius  : 

Evensong,    .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .120 

Rest,  121 

The  Sea  at  Eve,    .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .121 

The  Sweetest  Songs,     .       .       .       .       .       .  .122 

Welcome  Rest,  123 

Tieck,  Ludwig: 

The  Wild  Huntsman,    .       .       .       .       .       .  .123 

TSCHABUSCHNIGG,  A.,  RlTTER  VON  : 

The  Mermaid,      ......  .124 

Uhland,  Johann  Ludwig  : 

The  Midnight  Cavalier,        .       .       .       .       .  .125 

Autumn,   1 26 

Peasant  Life,   126 

Near  By,   127 

Wood  Song,         .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  127 

Night,   128 

Vogel,  Johann  Nepomuk  : 

Recognition,        .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .128 

Volkmann,  Richard  : 

Tranquil  Water,    .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .129 

Wolff,  Oskar  L.  B. : 

The  Phantom  Ship,      .       .       .       .       .       .  .130 

7 


WUCKE,  LUDWIG:  PAGE. 

The  Fisher  and  His  Love,    .       .       .       .       .  132 

The  Maiden  on  the  Strand,   133 

Anonymous: 

Eine  Hand  voll  Erde,   134 

The  Experiment,   135 

The  Booman,        ........  136 

The  Beggar  Beadle,   139 


8 


Field 


Solitude, 


HERMANN  ALLMERS. 

I REST  me  'midst  the  tall,  green,  wavy  grass, 
And  gaze  for  hours  on  the  deep-blue  sky  ; 
The  crickets  whir  around  me  as  they  pass, 
The  domes  celestial  o'er  my  fancies  lie. 

White  clouds  of  beauty  rare  the  scene  drift  o'er, 
Like  stilly  dreams,  obscuring  heaven's  face; 

Meseems  that  I  have  died  long  years  before, 
And  as  a  tranquil  spirit  glide  through  space. 


The  Dead  Ride  Fast. 

BECHSTEIN. 

THE  stars  in  heaven  shine  bright, 
The  moon  gleams  in  the  night, 
But  rapid  ride  the  dead. 

"  Throw  up  thy  casement  wide, 
And  let  me  to  thy  side, 
For  soon  my  hour  is  sped. 
a  9 


The  cock  hath  long  since  crowed, 
And  warns  of  day's  onroad, 
I  can  no  longer  'bide. 

I've  come  since  yesterday 
Two  hundred  miles  away, 
To-night  I  far  must  ride. 

Come,  sweetheart,  deck  with  speed, 
Come,  sit  thee  on  my  steed, 
The  journey's  worth  the  care  ; 

For  in  Hungarian  land 

A  little  house  I've  planned, 

My  path  is  ended  there. 

Upon  the  heather  green 
My  house  is  to  be  seen, 
For  me  and  for  my  bride  ; 

Come,  dress  without  delay, 
Come,  let  us  haste  away, 
To-night  we  far  must  ride." 

What  crotchet's  in  thy  head  ? 
Think'st  thou  I'm  to  be  led 
Away  in  the  cold,  cold  gloom  ? 

With  thee  I  may  not  go, 
Thy  bed's  not  large  eno', 
The  road  is  far  too  wide. 

IO 


"  Oh,  rest  in  peace  thy  head, 
Within  thy  lonely  bed, 
Till  dawns  the  day  of  doom." 


Tranquil  Heart. 

HUGO  VON  BLOMBERG. 

AS  silver  gray  the  welkin  beams, 
The  lake  as  silver  white  ; 
Amidst  the  sedge  a  diamond  gleams — 
A  fish  leaps  in  the  light. 

Through  marshy  meadow-flowers  my  way 

Trends  up  and  down  the  hills  ; 
A  breeze  blows  sharp  through  vine  and  spray, 

O'er  wave  and  grain  it  thrills. 

On  hill  and  glade  no  shadows  sleep, 

No  mellow  sunbeams  glow  ; — 
'Tis  like  true  Fortune,  silent,  deep, 

Whereof  no  man  doth  know. 


After  the  Storm. 

BODENSTEDT. 

FIRST  comes  the  rolling  thunder, 
The  fiery  clouds  flame  bright ; 
Then  broods  a  magic  stillness 
Upon  the  dewy  night, 
ii 


Away  the  peace  destroyer 

Of  day  speeds  from  the  scene  ; 

A  conquered,  rebel  vassal, 
Who  flies  before  his  queen. 

The  watery  mirror  shadows 

The  peaceful  sky's  mild  gleam  ; 

The  starry  seal  of  heaven 
Is  pressed  upon  the  stream. 

Around  the  welkin's  borders, 
The  wearied  lightnings  glance, 

As  when  the  Soul,  deep  dreaming, 
Moves  gently  in  its  trance. 


Sedan. 

BODENSTEDT. 

H Y  roars  the  cannons'  thunder  ? 

What  news  boom  out  the  bells  ? 
Where'er  a  German  heart  beats 

The  joyful  tidings  swells. 

A  battle  great  was  conquered 

At  Sedan,  in  the  field  ; 
And  man  shall  sing  and  praise  it 

Until  all  Time  shall  yield. 


The  third  Napoleon's  hour 
Of  Fate  there  tolled  for  aye  ; 

There  bled  McMahon  the  Marshal, 
Upon  th'  eventful  day. 

Then  let  the  ordnance  thunder, 
And  merry  chime  the  bells, 

Where'er  a  German  heart  beats 
The  blissful  message  swells. 

The  gladsome  sounds  reecho, 
O'er  mount  and  fell  and  coast ; 
Hail  Hero,  King  of  Germans  ! 
Hail  German  hero-host ! 


HE  world  in  dream  deep-sunken 


In  sheen  and  glamour  lies, 
No  leaf  stirs  on  the  branches, 
No  birdlet  in  the  skies. 

The  wearied  stars  are  wending 
Their  lengthy  road  to  rest, 

Yet  many  an  orb  is  rising 
Much  brighter  in  my  breast. 
13 


Summer  Night 


BODENSTEDT. 


The  joys  the  daydawn  promised 
Came,  sadly  fraught  with  care, 
But  night  brings  peaceful  quiet, 


Upon  the  stilly  air. 


The  Moonbeam's  Ray  Fell   on  the 
Lily's  Dew. 

BOETTGER. 

'T^HE  moonbeam's  ray  fell  on  the  lily's  dew, 


And  waked  its  elf  from  gentle,  tender  sleep  ; 
With  gauzy  wings,  of  golden  dragon's  hue, 
The  air-born  fay  fled  forth  with  breathings 
deep. 

He  blew  a  blast  on  silvery,  mystic  horn, 

(The  rose  its  petals  closed  with  gruesome 
dread,) 

Then  fluttering,  sped  his  flight  o'er  leaf  and 
thorn, 

And  bowed  his  yellow,  wheat-encircled  head. 

They  mingled  kisses  and  they  whispered  lays, 
With  many  a  jest  and  sport  and  playful  dart. 

I  stood  in  gloom  with  fixed  and  darksome  gaze, 
For,  all  forlorn,  I  knew  my  loving  heart. 
14 


The  Song  of  the  Steadfast  Knight. 

BRACHMAN. 

LET  all  around  thee  storm  and  mock, 
My  heart,  thou  shalt  not  swerve ; 
Stand  steadfast  like  an  ocean-rock 
O'er  which  the  billows  curve. 

An  angry  Fate  hath  hurled  thee  far 

From  all  thou  holdest  dear ; 
Be  calm,  my  heart,  thy  fortunes  are 

Within  thy  beating  sphere  ! 

Deep  in  my  breast  a  loving  heart 

Doth  'bide,  a  jewel  pure  ; 
When  thou  from  all  the  world  must  part, 

Let  love  for  aye  endure  ! 

When  all  the  world  shall  thee  forsake 

Let  love  thy  comfort  be ; 
When  all  shall  cease  and  rend  and  break 

True  love  can  never  flee ! 


Want. 

ADA  CHRISTEN. 

THE  creaking  songs  of  your  breaking  hearts 
Are  never  so  full  of  woe 
As  the  winter's  cold,  when  the  clothing's  thin, 
And  the  feet  walk  bare  in  the  snow. 
"5 


The  cry  of  the  Soul  for  its  long-lost  mate 

Ne'er  causeth  so  drear  a  pain, 
As  homeless  and  hungry  to  traverse  the  earth, 

To  sleep  on  the  stones  of  the  plain. 


The  Raven's  Meal. 

CREUZNACH. 

HROUGH  the  stubblefield  a  raven  flew, 
A  comrade  sails  forth  from  the  sable  crew. 
4  My  coal-black  brother,  give  voice  and  say, 
What  man  shall  give  us  our  food  to-day  ? 

'  In  the  Elfinvale  this  morn  I  saw 
A  royal  banquet  that  waits  our  maw  ; 
On  the  gallows  tree  there  reeks  the  blood 
Of  a  noble  Hero,  once  brave  and  good." 

*  Who  was  the  wretch  ?  Who  struck  the  blow  ?  " 

1  The  Knight's  gray  falcon  him  well  doth  know, 
And  the  mettled  charger  on  which  he  rode, 
And  the  young  wife  waiting  at  his  abode." 

But  his  comrade,  the  hawk's  flown  far  in  the  sky, 
And  his  murderer's  mounted  his  steed  to  fly, 
His  wife  will  never  the  dead  Knight  miss, 
While  his  slayer  still  lives  for  her  to  kiss. 
16 


The  Amber  Witch. 


FELIX  DAHN. 
I. 

SAINT  ELMO'S  lights  dance  on  the  witch's 
tower ; 

The  tempest  roars  through  amber-witch's  power. 

Swift  on  the  gale  her  harbinger  flew  by — 
The  laughing  sea-mew  howled  upon  the  sky. 

From  West-northwest  shrieks  from  the  Swedish 
sound 

The  storm  that  strews   the   sea-gold  on  the 
ground. 

Out  with  your  nets — swift  with  your  fleetest 
boat — 

Brave  divers'  death  to  snare  the  slippery  float. 

Now  we  return  with  loads  of  precious  store — 
The  toll  we've  paid — our  youngest  is  no  more. 

II. 

Young  George  from  Heidebrink,  it  was  to-day  ; 
The  witch  enticed  him — 'twas  a  precious  prey. 

Alas,  young  George !  'Tis  true  you'll  find  it  warm 
To  rest  your  head  upon  her  snow-white  arm  ; 


Around  thy  dripping  brow  with  tender  grace 
A  flaming  crown  of  amber  will  she  place. 
2  17 


The  March  of  the  Huns. 


FELIX  DAHN. 

VER  the  Tana'is,  over  the  Ister, 

Beckons  grim  Death  with  the  scythe  of  the 
Pest, 

Gird  thyself,  don  thy  robe,  gruesomest  sister, 
Far  off  in  Gallia's  calling  a  fest. 

Hear  me,  thou  starveling,  my  brother,  gaunt 
Hunger ! 

Rouse  thyself,  Vulture  that  sleepest,  oh  War! 
Carrion-gorged,  sated  and  weary,  still  younger, 
Spread  forth  thy  gore-crimsoned  pinions  afar!" 

See  !  in  the  heavens  a  portent  to  nations, 
Blazes  a  terrible,  death-boding  pack ; 

Hydras  and  dragons,  and  giant  creations, 
Fiery  chargers  with  wings  at  their  back ! 

See !  the  grim  vulture  before  them  rides  deadly, 
Howling  for  blood,  with  sharp  talons  a-glee, 

Darkening  the  sunlight  the  shrieker  spreads  redly 
Gore-dripping  pinions  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea! 

Fierce  flaming  forth  from  the  ravening  danger 
Darts  the  dread  tongue  in  the  hurricane  air, 

Midnight  behind  him,  and  roaring  in  anger 
Speeds  the  red  shaft  of  the  lightning's  fell 
glare. 

18 


Deadlier,  far  deadlier  than  yon  in  the  Heaven 
Whirls  on  the  Earth-ball  an  all-drowning  strife, 

Dragonwise-burning,  a  people's  foul  leaven, 
Fire  and  poison  spews,  darkens  all  life. 

Let  but  a  blast  on  a  bugle  be  sounded 
By  a  skin-tent  on  the  Allutha's  side, 

Troubled,  in  sorrow,  amazed  and  confounded, 
Trembles  and  totters  the  world,  far  and  wide. 

"  The  War-God  hath  given  the  world  for  your 
booty, 

Burn  it  or  slaughter  it,  Huns,  as  you  will !  " 
44  There  spake  the  voice  of  our  King,  of  our  Duty, 
Thank  thee,  oh  War-God,  we'll  ruin  and  kill." 

Hark  !  To  Bohemia  from  Caucasus'  mountains 
Europe  resounds  with  their  chargers'  gaunt 
tread, 

Highland  and  moorland,  in  fens  and  in  fountains, 
Raging  there  struggle  the  quick  and  the  dead  ! 

u  Attila,  father,  our  sov'reign  so  lavish, 

Say,  doth  this  please  thee,  the  hell  we  prepare? 
Warriors  impaling,  fair  damsels  we  ravish 

Bound  to  our  stirrups  with  closely-twined  hair. 

"  Attila,  sayst  thou  so?  Down  with  the  Roman  ! 
Sevenfold  death  to  the  Germanic  race  ! 
Grinding  to  powder  each  nation  and  foeman, 
Say,  can  we  favor  thus  find  'fore  thy  face?" 
19 


Raising   to   Heaven  the  scourge  with  blood 
draining 

Strung  with  nine  cords,  the  Khan  cried  out  in 
prayer : 

See  how  the  rods  in  the  clouds  flames  are  min- 
ing- 
Forward  !    Tis  westward  the  comet  points 
there  !  " 

Far  off  in  Gallia,  near  the  Marne's  quicksands, 

Stood  two  brave  men  with  their  harness  a-clasp , 
Strangled  with  hemp  grown  in  Tartary's  foul 
lands. 

Shall  the  world,  helpless,  breathe  forth  its  last 

gasp?" 

Not  so,  Aetius,"  his  comrade  said  laughing, 
Tossing  his  yellow  locks  loose  to  the  wind, 

Strife  all  forgotten,  and  peace-bumpers  quaffing, 
Who  shall  affright  us  when  we're  of  one  mind? 

Summon  from  Tiber,  by  envoys  most  pressing, 
Corseletted  legions  to  fly  from  their  home, 

Loyal  Theodoric's  Goths  acquiescing, 

The  spear  of  the  German,  the  buckler  of  Rome. 

Let  them  on  shaggy-haired  chargers  come  flying, 
Let  them  receive  us  with  lance  and  with  bow, 
Quick  we'll  repulse  them  with  howling  and 
crying, 

Roman  arts,  German  strength  blended  we'll 
show ! " 

20 


The  Song  of  the  Legions. 

FELIX  DAHN. 

THROUGH  Alpine  snow,  through  Parthian  sand, 
With  firm  and  steady  tread, 
We  bear  with  us  our  Fatherland, 
Our  Roman  rights  inbred. 

And  where  we  pitch  our  camp  each  night, 

There  dwells  our  native  zone, 
We  follow  on  our  eagle's  flight, 

The  whole  world  is  our  own. 

With  victory  won  the  sword  is  sunk, 

We  work  with  plough  and  spade, 
The  land  which  Roman  blood  hath  drunk 

Is  Roman  Penates  made. 

By  Danube  and  Euphrates'  streams 

Our  Roman  gods  we  bear, 
And  soon  another  Rome  outgleams 

Whilst  rude  barbarians  stare. 

The  forest  falls,  the  swamps  are  dried, 

The  lictor's  rods  draw  near, 
A  beauteous  world  grows  by  our  side, 

The  olive,  vine,  appear. 

We  build  stone  roads  throughout  the  lands 

On  which,  till  last  of  days, 
The  brazen  tread  of  warlike  bands 

Shall  echo  forth  our  praise. 

21 


From  Delphic  priest's  inspired  face 
The  word  of  fate  resounded, 

That  stable  as  the  earth's  own  base 
The  might  of  Rome  is  founded. 

From  pole  to  pole  eternal  will 

Our  Roman  eagles  fly, 
While  on  the  Capitolian  hill 

The  gods  enshrined  dwell  nigh. 


LADLY  would  I  like  the  other 


Dead  my  grave  in  quiet  keep ; 
Yet  a  ban  eternal,  cursed, 

Makes  me  wander  when  all  sleep. 

Peaceful  in  the  azure  moonbeams 
Rest  the  vaults  where  others  dwell, 

From  my  heavy,  marble  tombstone 
Burning  pangs  my  path  impel. 

Gloomy  pinions  burst  from  out  me, 

Through  my  soul  fierce  longings  thrill ; 

Over  hill  and  dale  to  wander, 

Yearnings  drive  me  'gainst  my  will. 

22 


The  Vampire. 


FELIX  DAHN. 


Where  my  tender  bride  reposeth, 
Sultry  dreams  of  living  love  ; 

O'er  her  form  a  sombre  wooer, 
Light  I'll  flutter  from  above. 

Now  I  tremble  o'er  her  forehead, 
Now  the  taper  flickers  low  ; 

Now  I  faint  from  glowing  passion, 
Yet  away  I  cannot  go. 

Well  I  know  my  breath's  destruction, 
She  whom  I  may  kiss  is  dead ; 

Yet  I  press  the  fatal  signet 
On  the  lips,  so  full  and  red. 

Hark!  Avaunt!  The  cock  is  crowing, 
Pale  and  cold  the  maiden  lies ; 

Deep  within  my  grave  I'll  burrow, 
Back  the  marble  o'er  me  flies. 


The  Winter  Sun. 


ECKELMANN 

u 


0H 


,  sunshine,  tardy  sunshine, 
Wherefore  this  long  delay  ? 
Why  tarry  thy  soft,  warm  beams, 
This  bitter,  winter  day  ?  " 
23 


"  Far  off  beyond  yon  mountains, 
There  roars  an  ice-wind  wild  ; 
'Tis  there  my  rays  have  loitered, 
To  cheer  an  orphan  child." 


BAPTIZED  deep  in  purple  glow, 
The  heavens,  the  sea,  the  strand  ; 
The  moonlight  flickers  'midst  the  stars, 
Whilst  by  the  shore  I  stand. 

How  happy  shall  that  man  be  deemed 
Who  like  such  twilight  fades, 

That  softly  blends  in  silvery  night, 
And  rests  in  realm  of  shades. 


The  Robber  Brethren. 

VON  EICHENDORFF. 
I. 

HE  fight  is  done — here  all  is  still ; 


II. 

"  A  breeze  comes  o'er  the  ravine's  walls. 
Hear'st  thou  that  voice?  Our  mother  calls." 
24 


Song. 


EICHRODT. 


Lie  on  the  sward  and  rest  thy  fill." 


HI. 

Our  mother  long  to  heaven  hath  gone  ; 
A  bell  rings  out  the  morning  dawn." 

IV. 

Dear  mother,  give  thy  grieving  o'er  ; 
My  wicked  life  I  rue  full  sore." 

V. 

Why  kneeling  on  the  grass  dost  lie  ? 
Why  pales  thy  cheek,  why  breaks  thine  eye 

VI. 

His  life-blood  dyes  the  green  sward  red  ; 
The  robber  lies  in  silence  dead. 

VII. 

The  brother  kissed  the  cold,  wan  cheek ; 
I  loved  thee  more  than  tongue  can  speak." 

VIII. 

He  fired  one  shot  in  the  rock-bound  vale, 
Then  whirled  his  rifle  adown  the  dale. 

IX. 

He  strode  in  gloom  from  wood  to  town  ; 
My  wretched  life  I  would  lay  down. 

X. 

'  Here  is  my  head  ;  quick  speak  my  doom, 
And  place  me  in  my  brother's  tomb." 
25  * 


Swen  and  Gorm. 


ERTINGEN. 


HE  whirlwind  roars  over  the  moorland  by  night 


[_      Where  two  Northern  monarchs  are  camped 
for  the  fight. 

The  crown  of  King  Swen  hath  been  envied  by 
Gorm ; 

To  succor  his  kingdom  Swen  braveth  the  storm. 

And  as  the  pale  moon-orb  in  heaven  did  roll, 
King  Gorm  stood  alone  on  an  old,  haunted  knoll. 

He  mocked  at  the  foeman  with  laughter  and 
jeers, 

When  sudden  a  giant  before  him  appears. 

"  And  failest  thou  to  win  'fore  the  cock-crow  the 
fight, 

Thou  losest  thy  life,  for  my  realm  is  black  night." 

Alone  in  his  tent  Swen  kneels,  bowed  in  deep 
prayer, 

An  angel  of  heaven  shines  bright  in  midair. 

"  Defer  till  the  morning  to  wage  the  wild  fray 
And  then  thou  shalt  conquer,  for  mine  is  the 
day." 


But  lo  !  while  Swen  listeth  in  pious  repose, 
In  gloom  and  in  darkness  the  battle-horn  blows. 
26 


The  enemy's  trumpets  on  all  sides  resound, 
Corpses,  like  towers,  heap  on  the  red  ground. 


In  darkness  and  gloom,  then,  must  Swen  make 
his  fight, 

His  cross-handled  sword  will  sure  conquer  for 


But  the  Walunder-runes  that  were  graved  on 

Gorm's  brand 
Laid  Swen  dead  and  conquered  by  magic's  foul 


Long,  long,  ere  the  heaven's  were  lighted  by  day 
Had  Gorm  from  Swen's  forehead  the  crown 
rent  away. 


Human  Life. 

HEINRICH  FALKLAND. 

HE  billows  hasten  to  the  sea, 


No  foaming  wave  comes  rolling  back, 
Though  on  the  floodtide,  ever  young, 
Soars  brightly  memory's  glorious  track. 

And  all  thy  heart  once  felt  and  loved, 
And  all  the  ocean  bears  away, 

Renews  its  life  in  rainbow  sheen, 
Lives  once  again  in  sparkling  spray. 
27 


right. 


hand. 


In  phantom  colors,  many  hued, 

Like  to  the  waves,  thy  youth  hath  run; 

Forever  scattered  when  night  winds 
Fan  forth  the  dream  at  set  of  sun  ! 


Violet. 

HOFFMAN  VON  FALLERSLEBEN. 

WHY  so  pensive,  violet? 
Why  that  bent  head,  pretty  pet, 

In  th'  emerald  moss? 
Tell  me  what  art  thinking, 
With  deep  feeling  shrinking, 
To  all  joy  so  lost? 

"  Cease  ;  in  drear  forebode 
List  I  to  the  ode 

Of  the  nightingale ; 
Mute  and  bowed  and  still, 
Hearken  to  the  thrill 

Of  her  plaintive  tale." 


The  Rose  Bush. 

EDWARD  FERRAND. 

THE  babe  sleeps  'neath  the  roses'  bloom, 
The  May  breeze  wafts  its  faint  perfume, 
Its  rest  is  calm,  its  dreams  entice, 
It  smiles  with  angels  in  paradise. 

The  years  roll  by. 
28 


The  maiden  stands  'fore  the  roses'  bloom, 
Encircled  by  buds,  and  by  blossoms'  perfume; 
On  her  heaving  breast  she  lays  her  hand, 
In  pure,  glowing  fancies  her  pleasures  expand. 

The  years  roll  by. 

The  mother  kneels  'fore  the  roses'  bloom, 
The  leaves  soft  rustle  in  evening  gloom, 
She  thinks  on  the  days  that  have  long  sped  by, 
The  tear-drops  swim  in  her  saddened  eye. 

The  years  roll  by. 

Lifeless  the  rose  bush  mourns  in  death, 
The  leaves  have  fallen  'fore  autumn's  breath, 
The  leaves  have  withered  and  fallen  in  gloom 
And  covered  in  whispers  a  silent  tomb. 

The  years  roll  by. 


At  the  Daydawn. 

JOHANN  GEORG  FISCHER. 

J^TMS  morn,  yet  all  around's  in  gloom, 
X     In  trance  the  fields  and  bushes  lie, 
The  lark  still  slumbers  on  the  plain, 
In  silence  dreams  of  melody. 

Arise,  oh  Soul,  thy  time  hath  come  ! 

Ope  wide  thy  pinions,  spread  in  haste- 
That  when  the  daylight  glows  at  last 

Already  is  thy  world  embraced. 
29 


Count  Uhlrich. 


KARL  FOERSTER. 


OUNT  UHLRICH  marched  with  helm  and  brand 


On  burning  Hung'ry's  plains  ; 
The  Kaiser's  army  victory  won, 
And  homeward  came  when  fight  was  done— 

But  Uhlrich  lost  remains. 

A  mournful  story  passed  around, 
"  He  fell  with  many  a  lethal  wound 

Beneath  the  foeman's  skies  ; 
Struck  down  by  deadly  weapon  deep 
His  blood  poured  out ;  he  fell  asleep, 

And  closed  in  death  his  eyes." 

She  rent  her  garb,  she  tore  her  hair, 
She  spent  her  fasting  days  in  prayer, 

His  pretty,  pious  wife  : 
And  penance  did  at  many  a  shrine, 
Full  many  a  longing  hour  did  pine, 

She  lived  a  godly  life. 

Swift  as  the  day  returned  each  year 
From  hill  and  dale  in  crowds  appear 

A  hungry,  ragged  train ; 
The  poor,  the  pilgrim,  wearied  cried, 
Asked  alms  for  sake  of  him  who  died, 

And  none  appealed  in  vain. 


To  battle  in  a  far-off  land, 


The  fourth  year  passed  and  now  once  more 
That  fated  daylight's  sun  doth  pour 

Its  beams  upon  the  ground  ; 
She  stood  beneath  th'  accustomed  tree, 
Where  crowds  in  abject  poverty, 

Unnumbered,  clustered  'round. 

And  one  sprang  through  the  throng  and  cried, 
"  A  garment,  lady."  Undenied 

She  reached  him  one  above  ; 
He  seized  her  by  her  slender  waist 
And  pressed  her  to  his  swarthy  chest 

As  smit  with  sudden  love. 

His  clasp  grew  strong  ;  her  mouth  he  sips  ; 
He  kissed  her  on  her  tender  lips, 

And  lovingly  doth  leer. 
She  shrieks,  she  weeps,  she  struggles  sore, 
Alas  !  her  efforts  can  no  more — 

"  Ah  were  mine  Uhlrich  here  ! 

"  For  such  a  shame  I  ne'er  could  feel, 
As  now  this  palmer  doth  me  deal, 

With  most  unblushing  head  ; 
And  since  such  scorn  as  this  can  be, 
For  the  first  time  I  truly  see 

My  Uhlrich's  surely  dead  !  " 


3i 


The  servants  draw  ;  the  palmer  tears 
His  garment  made  of  woven  hairs, 

From  off  his  brawny  chest ; 
And  as  he  showed  the  well-known  scars, 
By  honor  earned  in  noble  wars, 

Her  lord  stands  there  confessed. 

Tis  Uhlrich's  self!  Now  once  again 
The  sunlight  beams  on  field  and  plain, 

And  quickens  all  with  life  ; 
Once  more  a  second  marriage  bond 
Unites  in  love  the  couple  fond, 

Count  Uhlrich  and  his  wife  ! 


SK  me  not  why  when  'neath  the  glow 


Of  fortune's  sun  my  joys  expand, 
Harsh  cares  still  furrow  up  my  brow, 
And  in  my  eyes  the  tears  oft  stand. 

Hast  viewed  the  sea  ?  The  waves  still  crash 
When  storms  are  o'er,  like  towers  on  high ; 

Behold  the  trees  !  the  rain-drops  plash 

Though  tempest  fierce  hath  long  passed  by. 


After  the  Storm. 


THEODORE  FONTANE. 


32 


The  Fisher  Maid. 


THEODORE  FONTANE. 

FISHER'S  hut  stands  'midst  the  dunes 


As  sets  the  sun  at  eventide  ; 
In  rosy  glow  the  nets  hang  low, 

The  ancient  gabled  walls  they  hide. 

Loud  snarls  and  hums  the  spinning-wheel, 
The  pale  moon  on  the  casement  sleeps ; 

Beside  the  hearth  the  fisher-maid 

Thinks  of  the  ended  storm — and  weeps. 

In  lament  sore  the  tears  burst  forth, 
"  The  sea  is  deep  and  wide's  the  sky, 
Yet  wider  still  my  heart  doth  long, 
And  deeper  far  my  sorrows  lie." 


THEODORE  FONTANE. 

ICK  unto  death  the  baby  lies, 
•    The  flickering  lamp  gives  pallid  ray, 
The  mother  sobs,  "  I  feel  as  though 
An  unseen  guest  were  here  to-day." 

In  vain  the  father  seeks  to  smile, 

His  'frighted  heart  beats  loud  refrain, 

Silent,  more  silent  grows  the  hour — 
Far,  far  too  long's  the  night  of  pain. 
3  33 


The  Guest. 


The  day  dawn  on  the  casement  breaks, 

The  bird's  shrill  note  rings  gay  and  clear ; — 

Long  have  th'  unhappy  parents  known 
The  guest  whose  presence  was  so  drear. 


Noontide. 

THEODORE  FONTANE. 

THE  fir  tree  dreams  where  ends  the  wood  ; 
Light,  fleecy  cloudlets  deck  the  sky  ; 
Deep  silence  reigns,  so  still  I  hear 
The  voice  of  Nature's  inmost  cry. 

The  sun  shines  bright  on  field  and  fell, 
The  twigs  are  dumb,  no  zephyr  wakes, 

And  yet,  meseems,  a  trickling  rain 

As  though  on  leafy  roof  there  breaks  ! 


Sylvester  Night. 

THEODORE  FONTANE. 

THE  night  is  still,  the  hamlet  rests, 
The  mother  sleeps,  the  daughter  wakes, 
She  decks  the  table  for  two  guests, 
Swift  ere  the  witching  hour  o'ertakes. 

For  whom  this  trouble,  care  and  haste? 

And  who  shall  come  at  midnight's  knell  ? 
She  knows  not  who  the  food  shall  taste, 

His  very  name  she  cannot  tell. 

34 


Tis  said  that  if  a  maiden  pure 

At  twelve  upon  Sylvester  night 
Shall  deck  her  feast  for  two,  then  sure 

She'll  see  her  future  heart's  delight. 

And  though  she  ne'er  had  viewed  his  face, 
Though  leagues  by  hundreds  should  them  part, 

He'll  feel  the  spell  and  come  apace, 
And  eat  and  drink  and  then  depart. 

The  hour  rings  on  her  'frighted  ear — 
Would  that  the  table  were  not  spread  ! 

Her  soul  is  filled  with  awe  and  fear, 
She  dare  not  look  on  him  she'll  wed. 

The  hand  moves  on  its  steady  way, 

There's  no  one  comes ;  she  smoothes  her  brow, 

Her  glances  to  the  door  now  stray — 

Great  Heavens  !  He  sits  beside  her  now  ! 

His  eye's  like  fire,  his  face  is  pale, 

She  ne'er  beheld  him  in  her  life, 
He  fills  his  glass,  her  spirits  quail — 

He  speaks,  "  To-night  art  thou  my  wife. 

"  A  comrade  stormy,  bold,  I  bide, 

My  choice  and  wooing  swift  I  trow, 
For  I'm  the  bridegroom,  thou  the  bride, 
And  I'm  the  priest  to  speak  the  vow." 


35 


He  grasps  her  form — a  single  cry — 

The  mother  startled  comes — o'erthrown 

The  banquet  and  the  table  lie — 

The  daughter's  dead — dead  and  alone. 


The  Stuarts:  A  Puritan  Song. 

THEODORE  FONTANE. 

THROUGH  the  grace  of  God  and  the  strong 
right  arm 

They  think  they're  the  lords  of  this  land, 
And  yet  are  they  but  an  abandoned  race, 
And  a  death-devoted  band. 

From  the  days  of  yore  in  their  wicked  hearts 

Their  sinful  longings  dwell — 
Their  grandmother  was  the  Scarlet  One 

Of  whom  the  Scriptures  tell. 

Not  once,  but  twice  shall  their  vile,  vile  blood 

Th'  avenging  scaffold  stain  ; 
For  our  God's  fierce  vengeance  is  unappeased — 

They  shall  all  be  surely  slain. 

They  fain  would  establish  Jehovah's  throne, 

But  a  weakling  set  are  they, 
For  the  hour  hath  struck  and  the  knell  hath 
tolled— 

Their  house  shall  perish  for  aye. 
36 


The  thunder  rolls  and  the  lightnings  blaze — 

Away  with  the  hollow  lie  ! 
The  Stuarts  hold  one  and  all  for  Rome— 

And  they  all  shall  surely  die  ! 


James  Monmouth. 

THEODORE  FONTANE. 

A BLOODY  stain  from  earliest  days 
Through  all  our  house  hath  run  ; 
His  leman  Lucy  Walters  was — 
And  I  am  Lucy's  son. 

'Twas  sunset  hour  ;  beneath  the  trees 

They  kissed  amidst  the  corn, 
The  hunter's  note  thrilled  with  the  lark — 

A  sin-child  I  was  born. 

Full  oft  of  that  sweet  hour  she  spake, 
How  glowed  the  evening's  light, 

Her  lips  sighed,  Oh  how  deep  I  sinned ! — - 
Her  eyes  with  joy  burned  bright. 

The  axe  flames  'fore  the  Stuart-brood  ; 

Yes,  child  of  sin  and  woe, 
The  path  the  Stuarts  all  have  trod 

There  must  I  also  go. 


37 


Our  life  we  love,  our  crown  we  kiss, 
The  dames  our  hearts  we  give, 

Our  lips  the  gloomy  scaffold  press — 
That's  how  we  Stuarts  live  ! 


Bothwell. 

EMANUEL  GEIBEL. 

T  midnight  Marie  shook  with  dread 
As  through  the  secret  portal's  road 

With  knee  unbowed  and  haughty  head 
Lord  Bothwell  in  her  presence  strode. 

Then  ashen  paled  her  ruddy  glow ; 

She  quivered,  gasped  but  word  spake  none 
He  dried  the  dank  sweat  from  his  brow 

And  muttered  deep,  "  The  deed  is  done. 

The  deed  is  done.    Thy  lips,  so  bright, 
Shall  ne'er  with  such  a  stripling  mate. 

Lord  Darnley  took  his  heavenward  flight 
This  evening,  as  the  bells  tolled  eight." 

May  God  forgive,"  aloud  she  shrieks, 
"  Take  gold  and  jewels — quick  away." 

With  grim  and  bitter  laugh  he  speaks — 
"  Can  gold  my  deed  of  blood  repay? 

'Tis  you  I  love.    Should  I  atone 
In  deepest  pit,  with  vengeance  fell, 

I've  wrought  this  crime  for  you  alone, 
For  you,  most  beauteous  devil  from  hell. 
38 


"  The  hand  that  struck  a  monarch  down 
Shall  quickly  bear  a  queen  away." 
He  shouted.    Marie  fell  in  sv/oon 
Prone  on  the  earth,  a  lifeless  clay. 

He  raised  her  up.    Deep  was  the  wound 
His  corselet  made,  but  naught  she  knew ; 

Her  dark-brown  tresses  fell  unbound 
Upon  his  shoulder  as  he  flew. 

He  forced  a  ring  upon  her  hand, 

He  swang  her  'fore  him  on  his  steed, 

And  through  the  stormy,  misty  land 
To  Dunbar's  castle  rode  with  speed. 

Black  was  the  night  as  though  each  star 
Were  quenched  that  spoke  salvation  nigh, 

But  in  the  murky  welkin  far 

An  axe's  edge  gleamed  on  the  eye. 


Romance  of  the  Crocodile. 

EMANUEL  GEIBEL. 

1AM  a  hoary  crocodile, 
I've  seen  full  oft  th'  Osiris  band  ; 
At  noon,  I  basked  upon  the  Nile, 
At  eve,  lay  eggs  beneath  the  strand. 


39 


Full  well  I  know  by  craft  to  gain, 
With  feigned  woe,  my  wonted  meal ; 

For  weekdays,  Moorish  flesh  obtain, 
On  Sundays,  many  a  Turk  I  steal. 

And  when  the  moon's  pale,  yellow  ray 
Gilds  on  the  vale,  the  cliff,  the  shore; 

Before  an  ancient  Sphynx  I  play, 
And  hearken  to  its  antique  lore. 

With  claws  sand-sunk  before  its  breast, 

Deep-musing,  "  Thebe's  daughter,"  it  says, 
"  Eat  naught  save  that  thou  canst  digest, 
That  is  the  mystery  of  thy  days  !  " 


The  Chargers  of  Gravelotte. 

KARL  GEROK. 

HOT  was  the  day  and  bloody  the  fight, 
Cool  was  the  evening  and  stilly  the  night ; 

Off  in  the  woodland,  and  down  'neath  the  hill 
Three  times  the  bugle  rang,  piercing  and  shrill. 

Blew  a  loud  signal  and  sang  for  recall, 
Summoned  the  Uhlans  as  evening  did  fall. 

Troopwise,  by  squadrons,  by  three  and  by  four, 
Came  the  brave  riders  bespattered  with  gore  ; 
40 


But  many  who  rose  at  the  dawn's  early  light 
Failed  to  respond  at  the  call  of  the  night ; 

Those  who  at  daybreak  drew  boldly  their  blade 
Lay  at  the  eventide,  bleeding  or  dead. 

Chargers  still  saddled,  unridden  by  man, 
Strayed  o'er  the  field  without  order  or  plan. 

Now  the  sharp  signal  the  third  time  is  blown — 
Far  in  the  distance  resounds  the  shrill  tone. 

See  how  yon  charger  pricks  up  his  wild  ear, 
Whinnying  answers,  the  bugle  draws  near  ; 

Then  a  brown  stallion  comes  close  to  his  side, 
Just  where  when  living  his  master  did  ride  ; 

E'en  the  gray  war-horse  with  spirit  a-droop 
Wounded  and  limping,  takes  place  in  the  troop. 

Troopwise,  by  squadrons,  on  right  and  left  flanks, 
Th'  unridden  horses  fall  into  their  ranks. 

Horses,  like  riders,  full  well  know  their  place, 
Sounds  the  shrill  clarion,  they  seek  it  apace. 

Chargers  three  hundred,  a  pitiful  host, 
That  on  the  battlefield  masters  had  lost. 


Saddles  three  hundred,  a  saddening  sight, 
Saddles  made  empty  in  Gravelotte's  fight ; 

41 


Chargers  three  hundred,  a  riderless  band, 
True  to  their  banner,  their  king  and  their  land. 

When  fame  sounds  the  praise  of  the  heroes 
who  fell, 

The  glory  their  steeds  won  is  reckoned  as  well. 


Triolet. 

J.  W.  L.  GLEIM. 

THEN  must  1  write  a  Triolet  ? 
A  Triolet's  a  petty  thing, 
Within  its  bounds  her  praise  to  say  ! 
Then  must  I  write  a  Triolet  ? 
How  can  I  with  such  trifles  play — 
Let  me  a  pompous  anthem  sing  ! 
Then  must  I  write  a  Triolet  ? 
A  Triolet's  a  petty  thing  ! 


The  Cradle-Coffin. 

HUGO  GOERING. 

IN  the  last  cottage  of  the  hamlet's  bounds 
At  dead  of  night  a  din  of  blows  resounds  ; 

A  father  hammers  whilst  the  village  sleeps, 
A  mother  vigil  by  her  dead  babe  keeps. 
42 


The  boards  he  joins — the  strokes  ring  sharp  and 
wild — 

He  makes  a  coffin  for  his  only  child. 

Tis  from  no  forest  tree  he  builds  the  bier, 
To  shield  the  lifeless  form  that  once  was  dear ; 

He  cuts  the  cradle,  the  babe's  only  bed — 
There's  no  other  wood  in  the  house  for  the  dead — 

From  out  the  cradle  a  coffin  to  build 
That  yestere'en  his  infant  living  filled ! 


The  Deserted  One. 

MARTIN  GREIFF. 

HERE  babbles  and  gurgles  a  brooklet, 


A  mill-wheel  toileth  slow ; 
Alas,  I  thought  him  faithful — 
'Twas  long,  long,  long  ago. 

In  dream  it  reappeareth, 
Whene'er  I  list  its  'hest ; 

The  more  I  hark  its  summons 
The  less  I  find  my  rest. 

And  when  I  see  it  plunging 
Swift  stop  my  breath  and  feet ; 

The  path  gives  'way  beneath  me, 
My  heart  doth  cease  to  beat. 
43 


In  the  Forest. 


MARTIN  GREIFF. 

A SOLITUDE  around  me  dwells, 
Of  silence  full,  and  peace, 
All  save  the  pang  that  rends  my  heart 
Whose  wail  can  never  cease. 

The  zephyrs  fan  the  quivering  leaves, 
The  birds  pour  forth  their  song, 

But  a  far-off  grave  bedims  my  sight — 
How  have  I  lived  so  long  ? 

Two  painted  moths  dance  o'er  a  rose, 

And  flutter  on  the  breeze, 
'Twas  thus  in  dalliance  once  we  loved 

Beneath  th'  embowered  trees. 


Starry  Night 

MARTIN  GREIFF. 

BY  midnight  cool  and  fresh  enticed 
From  home  I  took  my  way, 
Around  me  curved  the  deep-blue  sky, 
That  tempted  me  to  stray. 

The  moon,  half-veiled  in  subtle  mist, 

Diffused  a  mellow  light, 
A  host  of  stars,  in  far-off  realms, 

Gleamed  in  the  welkin  bright. 
44 


In  pompous  state  each  orb  sublime 
Marched  on  its  wonted  flight, 

The  heavens  glowed  in  magic  blaze — 
And  yet  'twas  deepest  night ! 


The  Dead  to  the  Living. 

ANDREAS  GRYPHIUS. 

HERE  stands  the  bound  of  Power  and  Might, 
The  goal  of  all  desire  ; 
Art,  Beauty,  Glory,  Honor  bright, 
In  vain  the  soul  inspire. 
The  book,  the  plough,  the  sword,  the  gown, 
Beneath  the  dust  must  all  lie  down. 

The  fleshly  form  the  spirit's  home 

For  many  an  anxious  year, 

That  roamed  the  plains,  or  skimmed  the  foam, 

Lies  on  its  burial  bier. 

For  rich  and  poor,  and  weak  and  brave, 

And  great  and  small,  must  to  the  grave. 


'M 


Nur  ein  Blick. 

FREDERICK  GUELL. 

IDST  the  willows  rests  the  mill-wheel, 

.On  the  weir  the  waters  roar; 
Gently  where  the  moonlight  dances 
Steps  the  mill-boy  on  the  shore. 
45 


But  on  high  a  casement's  opened, 
Kisses  soft  perfume  the  air, 

From  the  miller-maiden  wafted 
To  her  lover,  waiting  there. 

Rough  the  father's  accents  angry : 
"  Let  the  wheel  in  quiet  rest." 
Then  the  golden-rifted  casement 
Closes  at  the  warning  'hest. 


Lilies  and  Roses. 

FREDERICK  GUELL. 

ILIES  white  and  roses  red 


f    Weep  in  garden  sore  ; 
She  who  loved  ye  once  is  dead, 
Ne'er  shall  'tend  ye  more  ! 

Strew  her  grave  with  flowers  in  bloom, 

Garlands  deck  her  bier ; 
'Round  her  brow  waft  sweet  perfume, 

Fan  her  golden  hair. 

Moulder,  wither,  disappear, 

As  she  once  did  fade, 
When  her  form  with  sorrowing  tear 

In  the  tomb  we  laid. 

46 


Mein  Herz  ich  will  Dich  Fragen. 


FRIEDERICH  HALM. 

SPEAK  out,  my  heart,  give  answer  true, 
What  rule  doth  Cupid  own  ? 
"  Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought, 
Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one." 

Now  tell  me  where  doth  love  abide  ? 

"  It  comes — and  it  is  here." 
Now  tell  me  how  it  leaves  thy  side — 

"  'Tis  gone  as  soon  as  near." 

And  what  of  love  is  purest  trait  ? 

"  That  which  itself  forgets." 
Say,  when  is  love  of  deepest  strength  ? 

"  When  it  in  silence  frets." 

And  when  is  love  of  riches  full  ? 

"  When  gift  of  one  who  loves." 
Now,  tell  what  language  love  doth  speak  ? 

"  It  speaks  not, — love  but  loves." 


Upon  the  Lake. 

FRIEDERICH  HALM. 

NIGHT  falls  with  gloomy  shadows, 
The  Nixie  sinks  to  bed 
In  couch  of  emerald  billows, 
The  mist  rolls  o'er  her  head. 
47 


The  moonbeams  serve  as  taper 
That  on  the  green  dunes  play ; 

The  evening  bells  sing  lullaby 
Where  sleeps  the  wearied  fay. 

But  hark  !  What  gentle  whispers 

Above  the  lake  take  flight  ? 
The  weeds  and  waves  are  sighing, 

Half-drunk  with  sleep,  "  Good-night." 


Spruch. 

JULIUS  HAMMER. 

LET  it  be  a  rule  for  aye 
Ne'er  thy  word  to  'bate  ; 
Yet  be  cautious  that  thou  ne'er 
Promise  things  too  great. 

But  of  manly  purpose  full 

Act  in  life'  thy  part ; 
Like  thou'd  made  a  vow  of  earn'st 

To  the  world's  great  heart. 


First  Snow. 

MORITZ  HARTMAN. 

THE  earliest  snow  bedecks  the  trees 
Where  green  leaves  late  did  ope ; 
The  earliest  grief  weighs  on  the  dreams 
Once  glad  with  love  and  hope. 
48 


The  early  snow  will  soon  be  lost 
Beneath  the  sun's  warm  ray — 

But  first  of  woes  strikes  deep  a  wound 
No  joy  can  chase  away. 


Silence. 

MORITZ  HARTMANN. 

NOT  e'en  a  breath  or  sound — 
Then  let  us  silence  keep  ; 
The  bending  willows  that  weep 
O'er  graves  are  silent  found. 

They  bow  themselves  and  read, 

As  I  upon  thy  brow ; 

Fortune  was  with  us  now 
And  passed  away  with  speed. 


Mist. 

MORITZ  HARTMANN. 

GRAY  mist  before  my  casement  sweeps, 
In  morning  wind,  as  day  dawns  bright ; 
It  flies,  like  when  at  crow  of  cock, 
At  sunrise  all  the  ghosts  of  night. 

Fast  flits  the  fog,  as  though  the  world 

Fled  with  its  hills,  and  vales,  and  streams, 

In  fear  before  the  warm  sun's  rays, 

In  trembling  at  the  springtide's  beams. 

4  49 


To  me  it  seems  my  soul  dissolved 

And  melting  passed  before  my  sight ; 
The  fog  my  joy  and  grief  removed 
And  bore  them  hidden  in  its  flight. 


Since  She  is  Dead. 

MORITZ  HARTMANN. 

SINCE  she  is  dead  my  spirit  kens  full  sore, 
Eternity's  a  sure  and  certain  thing ; 
For  o'er  my  rent  and  ever-bleeding  heart 
Eternal  pangs  brood  with  a  fluttering  wing, 
Since  she  is  dead. 

Since  she  is  dead,  I'm  rash  and  proud  of  mien, 
I  know  the  burthens  now  that  heart  can  bear ; 

What  boots  it  now,  to  strive,  to  work,  to  win, 
Can  risk  or  danger  spread  for  me  a  snare, 
Since  she  is  dead  ? 

Since  she  is  dead,  within  my  bosom  dwells 
Glory  enthroned  in  brightest,  purest  ray, 
And  like  a  grove  where  saints  enshrined  watch 
o'er 

Nor  harm  shall  hurt,  nor  mold,  nor  rust  decay, 
Since  she  is  dead. 

5° 


Since  she  is  dead,  a  grim  encircling  wall 
Of  solid  loneliness  is  'round  me  drawn. 

In  vain  the  concourse  kind  of  loving  friends 
Seeks  once  again  to  cheer  my  soul  forlorn, 
Since  she  is  dead. 

Since  she  is  dead  the  saddest,  gentlest  calm 
Hath  sunk  within  my  deepest  heart's  retreat, 

My  soul  hath  softly  closed  its  eyes  to  rest 

And  broods  and  dreams  in  premonitions  sweet, 
Since  she  is  dead. 


A  Restful  Place. 

MAX  HAUSHOFER. 

IT  IGH  in  the  world,  far  over  the  sea, 
1  J.    Upon  a  rock-pinnacle's  face, 

A  graveyard  there  shimmers  as  even  falls 
Where  the  mad  clouds  fiercely  chase. 

The  tombstones  lie  on  the  green,  green  grass, 

'Neath  the  trees  of  a  hoary  age, 
That  warmed  by  the  kindly  summer  beams 

Dream  of  tales  from  a  long  lost  page. 

'Tis  here  that  the  angels  long  dead  to  the  world 

Await  in  a  stilly  field 
The  day  of  doom  ;  'tis  here  they  watch 

Like  a  sentry  with  golden  shield. 

51 


For  love  and  truth  in  glad  slumber  lie 
Where  their  only  home  is  found  ; 

And  the  glowing  beams  of  the  evening  star 
Rest  soft  on  their  funeral  mound. 

Through  the  far-off  world,  year  in,  year  out, 
Roar  the  storms  from  Time's  wild  hand  ; 

But  the  graves  sleep  still  'neath  the  burning  sun 
Near  the  barren  ocean's  strand. 


Fly  Hence. 

MAX  HAUSHOFER. 

HENCE,  fly  hence,  when  sets  the  sun 
Withered  leaf  from  tree  of  Life  ! 
Struggle  not  in  useless  strife, 
For  thy  course  hath  now  been  run  ! 

Hence,  fly  hence  !  In  circle  roll 
O'er  thy  head,  the  starry  lights  ; 
Night-winds  bear  with  gentle  flights 

To  th'  eternal  sea  thy  soul ! 


Sea-Shine. 

FRIEDERICH  HEBBEL. 

FROM  the  ocean's  sunless  chasms, 
Rose  Aphrodite  to  light, 
Whilst  in  greenwood,  fate-predestined, 
Philomel's  song  charmed  the  night. 
52 


Like  a  mirror,  full  of  yearnings, 

Glassy  floods  rolled  smooth  their  wave, 

Though  she's  left  the  depths  forever 
Still  her  mold  they  fain  would  save. 

Laughing  sweetly  on  the  billows 
Her  last  glances  looked  them  o'er, 

So  the  sea  still  blazes  brightly, 
Smiles  and  gleams  for  evermore. 


On  Every  Human  Being's  Face. 

GEORGE  HERWEGH. 

ON  every  human  being's  face 
In  dim  reflection  we  may  trace 
Soft-shadowed  oft  in  clear-writ  rays 
The  star  that  rules  his  future  days. 

The  genius  that  harmonious  sings 
His  tones  of  wonder  'round  thee  flings  ; 
Th'  untuned  world,  it  well  may  be 
Shall  never  true  accord  with  thee  ! 


Song. 

GEORGE  HERWEGH. 

A JEWEL  true  is  love,  so  pure, 
Whose  flames  from  year  to  year  endure, 

And  ne'er  shall  fade  away  ; 
It  burneth  long  as  heavenly  light 
Within  a  manly  eye  glows  bright — 
'Tis  there  it  holds  its  sway  ! 

53 


Like  to  the  stars  its  power  and  might, 
The  rulers  of  the  day  and  night, 

No  storm  can  ever  move  ! 
When  hatred's  levin  o'er  earth  shall  blaze 
In  calm  it  speeds  its  peaceful  ways, 

High  o'er  the  clouds  flies  love  ! 


Love's  Service. 

PAUL  HEYSE. 

WHEN  a  house  in  ruins  lies 
Can  it  please  its  guest  ? 
Dust  from  nooks  and  crannies  flies, 
Swept  before  the  feast. 

As  I  once  in  heart's  deep  ground 

Order'd  fain  restore, 
Gentle  voice  gave  forth  a  sound, 

I  should  ope  the  door. 

Love  so  beauteous  pleading  stood, 
On  the  threshhold  stone  ; 

That  my  house  was  far  from  good, 
Sad  I  made  a  moan. 

Light  she  smiled  and  tripped  before 

In  my  house  she  stands, 
Did  her  work  with,  as  of  yore, 

Long  accustomed  hands. 
54 


Ask  ye  whence  doth  come  such  splendor, 

In  amazement,  this  I  tell, 
She  who  service  once  did  render 

There  as  princess  now  doth  dwell. 


The  Scarecrow. 

PAUL  HEYSE. 

A    MONK  stands  in  the  meadow — 
£\    Or  rather  his  old  clothes, 
The  cowl  and  garments  flutter 
Whene'er  the  tempest  blows. 

Now,  thinks  the  pious  peasant, 
Our  grain  we'll  sure  protect, 

The  sparrows  will  respect  it 
In  holiness  bedeckt. 

The  sparrows  think  the  friar 
Example  precious  gives ; 

He  neither  sows  nor  harvests, 
Yet  God  grants  whence  he  lives. 


In  the  Wood. 

FRIEDERICH  HOFFMAN. 

WANDERER  roameth  through  the  wood 

Of  doubt,  distress,  and  care  ; 
Since  earliest  dawn  his  feet  have  strayed, 

No  path  or  road  is  there. 

55 


He  seeks  and  quests,  but  all  in  vain, 
The  day's  bright  hours  fast  run — 

Alas  for  him  who  comes  not  forth 
Before  the  set  of  sun  ! 

Full  many  a  mind  hath  blindly  erred 
On  Truth's  most  precious  ground, 

In  forest  of  doubt,  and  fell  despair, 
A  wearied  grave  hath  found. 


Sexton's  Song. 

L.  H.  C.  HOELTY. 

DIG,  dig,  my  spade,  for  thou  dost  give 
The  wealth  and  gain  from  whence  I  live ; 
My  thanks  to  thee  I  owe  ! 
For  rich  and  poor,  sedate  and  gay, 
Are  soon  or  late  my  certain  prey, 
At  last  to  me  must  go. 

This  skull  that  grins  from  out  the  grave 
Was  erst  a  warrior — noble,  brave — 

Whose  greeting  no  man  gained ! 
These  bleaching  bones,  this  moldering  head, 
Whence  cheeks  and  lips  have  long  since  fled, 

Once  rank  and  gold  attained. 


56 


See,  yonder  skull  with  ragged  hair, 
A  few  years  since  an  angel  fair, 

As  bright  as  Phoebus'  rays  ; 
A  thousand  youths  with  zealous  speed 
Served  lovingly  each  passing  need, 

And  stood  with  blinded  gaze ! 

Dig,  dig,  my  spade,  for  thou  dost  give 
The  wealth  and  gain  from  whence  I  live ; 

My  thanks  to  thee  I  owe ! 
For  rich  and  poor,  and  grave  and  gay, 
Are  soon  or  late  my  certain  prey, 

At  last  to  me  must  go. 


Xenie. 

FRIEDERICH  HORNSECK. 

OULDST  thou  reach  the  highest  triumphs, 


To  the  lowliest  functions  creep  ; 
If  the  trifle's  nobly  finished, 
Carping  critics  silence  keep. 

Canst  thou  ne'er  construct  a  temple, 
Then  erect  an  humble  cot ; 

Where  the  gods  pure  hearts  discover 
There  they  haunt  the  sacred  spot. 


57 


Lines  for  an  Album. 


W.  JORDAN. 

THERE'S  many  a  one  who  at  first  gaze 
Seems  sympathetic,  loving,  warm; 
But  shows  himself,  when  known  his  ways, 
Devoid  of  soul  and  every  charm. 

There's  many  a  one,  when  first  we  greet 
Seems  cold  as  ice ;  yet  known  to  few 

Within  his  breast  the  seeker'll  find 
A  treasure  storehouse,  rich  and  true. 


The  Dead  Miller. 

JUSTINUS  KERNER. 

THE  stars  shine  bright  o'er  the  rocky  vale, 
The  mill-wheels  rapidly  bend  ; 
To-night  must  I  visit  the  miller  so  pale  ; 
He's  sick,  and  he's  asked  for  his  friend. 

I  climbed  the  rough  path  to  the  gloomy  glade, 

The  mill-wheels  roared  sombre  and  drear, 
As  though  each  tone,  like  a  passing  bell,  said, 
"  Our  work  is  soon  finished  down  here." 

I  entered  the  room  where  the  miller  lay ; 

The  shell  of  the  gray  beard  was  cold  ; 
The  heart  was  at  rest  and  no  pulse  did  play ; 

Without  all  was  still  in  the  wold. 
58 


The  bitterest  sorrow  of  love  was  wept, 
But  the  heart  slept  cold  and  still ; 

The  waters  roared  and  rolled  unkept, 
But  in  silence  stood  the  mill. 


The  Four  Mad  Brethren. 


ITHERED,  wrinkled,  grim  and  bony, 


y      In  a  madhouse,  with  chained  breath, 
Haggard  limbs,  and  visage  stony, 

Lips  pale  blenched  and  still  as  death, 
Glower  brothers  four  in  trance — 
Sombre,  hollow,  glows  their  glance. 

But  when  midnight  hour  outtones, 
In  dread  dire  their  hairs  arise  ; 

From  their  throats  a  lay  outgroans, 
Smothered  deep  in  anxious  cries, 
"  Dies  irae,  dies  ilia, 

Solvet  saecla  in  favilla." 

Once  were  these  four  revelers  jolly, 
Drank  and  fought  in  many  a  fight, 

Sang  soft  songs  in  Love's  sweet  folly, 
Roistered  through  the  holy  night ; 

Friendly  counsel  ne'er  prevailed, 

Father's  warning  naught  availed. 

59 


JUSTINUS  KERNER. 


Spake  the  sire,  with  falling  breath, 
To  the  wicked  youths  at  play  : 
"  Tremble  ye  before  cold  Death ; 

All  must  yield  beneath  his  sway. 
'  Dies  irae,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  saecla  in  favilla.'  " 

So  he  spake  ;  but  no  paternal 

Words  could  change  their  wicked  bent ; 
He  flew  up  to  peace  eternal, 

They  towards  the  gallows  went ; 
Tainted  by  the  world's  mad  leaven, 
Turned  to  hell,  forsook  kind  heaven. 

And  they  roistered,  drank,  and  swore  ; 

Many  a  year  sped  fast  away  ; 
Life  was  pleasant  more  and  more  ; 

Not  a  tress  was  changed  to  gray ; 
Revel,  brethren,  without  fail 
Heaven  and  hell  are  but  a  tale ! 

Once,  as  midnight's  hour  rang, 
Rolled  they  drunken  on  the  sod, 

Came  a  chant  the  pious  sang 

From  a  neighboring  house  of  God  : 
"  Stop  that  barking,  filthy  hounds  !  " 

From  their  mouths  Satanic  sounds. 


60 


On  they  rush,  with  wassail  crazed, 

Raging  through  the  holy  door ; 
But  a  doleful  hymn  was  raised, 
Like  a  Day  of  Judgment's  choir  ; 
"  Dies  irae,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  saecla  cum  favilla." 

Mouths  wide  open,  mute  and  dumb, 
Smitten  sore  by  God's  own  hands, 

From  their  throats  no  voice  doth  come, 
Each  one  turned  to  marble  stands  ; 

Gray  their  hair  and  white  their  cheeks, 

Madness  now  each  victim  seeks. 

Withered,  wrinkled,  grim  and  bony, 
In  a  madhouse  with  chained  breath, 

Haggard  limbs,  and  visage  stony, 
Lips  pale  blenched  and  still  as  death, 

Glower  brothers  four  in  trance — 

Sombre,  hollow,  glows  their  glance. 

But  when  midnight  hour  outtones, 
In  dread  fear  their  hairs  arise  ; 

From  their  throats  a  lay  outgroans, 
Smothered  deep  in  anxious  cries, 
"  Dies  irae,  dies  ilia, 

Solvet  saecla  in  favilla." 


61 


The  Two  Coffins. 


JUSTINUS  KERNER. 

ONCE  lay  two  lonely  coffins 
In  moldering  chapel's  care  ; 
In  this,  King  Othmar  sleepeth, 
A  singer  sweet  rests  there. 

Once  sate  that  King  most  mighty 
Upon  his  father's  throne  ; 

His  sword  still  girts  about  him, 
Upon  his  skull  a  crown. 

Near  by  the  puissant  monarch 
The  singer's  soul  doth  rest, 

And  clasped  in  tender  pressure 
The  harp  lies  on  his  breast. 

The  towns  are  sacked  and  pillaged, 
Destruction  rules  the  land  ; 

Yet  stilly  lies  the  weapon 

Within  that  sovereign's  hand. 

Sweet  blossoms  and  soft  zephyrs 
Sweep  on  the  vale  along, 

The  singer's  harp  unwearied 
Outtones  eternal  song  ! 


62 


The  Column  of  Memnon. 


HERMANN  KLETKE. 


HE  night  grows  pale,  the  shadows,  flickering, 


Where  rests  the  new-born  sun  in  shimmer 
weird  ; 

They  greet  the  cheek  of  Memnon,  old  and  gray ; 
It  bows  its  head  and  speaks  from  lips  revered  : 

"  Full  many  a  thousand  circling  years  have  sped 
Since  human  hand  its  mark  upon  me  placed ; 
And  yet  I  stand,  a  sentry  of  the  dead, 

And  look  with  stony  glance  upon  the  waste. 

"  The  Persian  host,  the  warrior's  mailed  tread, 
The  pomp  of  Greece,  the  bold  Crusader's 
track, 

Before  my  eyes  have  passed  ;  but  all  are  dead ; 
Nor  desert  steed  nor  day  can  bring  them 
back." 

In  dust  encircled,  mute,  the  column  stands; 

A  whirlwind  roars,  the  pillar  breaks  and  falls! 
So  fades  the  world,  but  ever  with  its  hands, 

As  light  returns,  a  blessing  pure  recalls. 


play 


65 


Admonition. 


KARL  KNORTZ. 


OT  for  blemish 
Be  thy  search, 


Seek  pure  beauty, 
Not  its  smirch. 

When  the  tender 

Rose  decays 
In  the  autumn's 

Stormy  days, 

From  the  stalk 

The  blenched  leaves  fly, 
Easy  canst  thou 

Thorns  espy. 


A  Bucolic  Poem. 

KARL  KNORTZ. 

HIGH  on  breezy  Alpine  summits 
Hear  the  silvery  cow-bells  clank  ! 
On  the  verdant  herbage  browsing 

See  the  cattle's  heaving  flank  ! 
Deftly  moves,  with  flower-bedizened 

Head,  the  maid  whose  skilled  address 
Fills  with  milk' her  earthen  vessel, 
'Neath  the  wonted  tender  press. 

With  soft  hands  she  pets  the  beastie, 

Cupid's  arrows  pierce  me  now ; 
Oh,  how  happy  is  her  darling, 
Ohy  could  I  but  be  that  cow  / 
64 


But  propitious  in  that  moment 

Love's  great  power  to  me  was  shown, 
Ere  the  evening's  gold  did  glitter 

That  sweet  creature  was  mine  own  ! 
Since  that  day  she's  lived  beside  me, 

And,  alas  !  she's  still  my  wife! 
But  of  hearts  and  tender  loving 
No  more  converse  has  our  life. 
For  I  sorrow  in  sad  silence 

Many  a  tedious  year ;  and  now 
Cursed  be  the  wish  ill-omened, 
That  I  could  be  such  a  cow  ! 


T 


The  Dream. 

KARL  KNORTZ. 

WAS  but  last  night  I  saw  in  dream 

By  stranger  hand  my  corpse  grave  borne, 

No  weeping  friend  stood  by  my  bier, 
No  tearful  eye  my  loss  did  mourn. 

I  'woke — 'twas  gone.    If  I  no  friend 
Who  at  my  tomb  shall  sorrowing  cry 

Can  win  while  living  to  my  side, 
Then  would  I  rather  never  die. 


5 


65 


The  Elves. 


KARL  KNORTZ. 

THE  moon-illumined  oak-wood  long 
Outtones  the  merry  elfin  song. 

And,  to  the  mystic,  cheery  sounds, 
The  happy  feet  tread  giddy  rounds. 

A  youth  to  view  the  sport  draws  near — 
The  dance  attracts  both  eye  and  ear. 

"  Come,  dance  with  us,  thou  precious  boy, 
Our  chant  shall  fill  thy  heart  with  joy." 

They  sang  a  song,  so  bright  and  clear, 
The  mountain  streams  stood  still  to  hear. 

The  young  man's  heart  was  calm  and  cold, 
The  music's  spell  no  power  did  hold. 

"Trip  now,  my  lad,  within  our  round, 
And  learn  what  no  one  else  e'er  found. 

"  How,  through  the  aid  of  Runic  might, 
To  guide  the  maddened  steer  aright ; 

"  And,  how  to  slay  the  dragon  old, 
That  guards  the  heaps  of  buried  gold." 

"  No  time  have  I  to  dance  with  thee, 
My  castle's  filled  with  wedding  glee, 
66 


''And,  long  before  the  morn  is  gray, 
My  bride  will  thither  wend  her  way." 

And  then  the  elfin  queen  who'd  danced 
Towards  the  beauteous  youth  advanced, 

A  silken  robe  towards  him  reached, 
By  her,  in  coldest  moonlight  bleached. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  dance  and  play, 
My  castle's  many  a  mile  away." 

She  smote  him  deep  within  the  heart, 
He  ne'er  had  felt  so  fierce  a  smart. 

Without  a  word,  in  darkest  night, 

He  homewards  sped  his  frenzied  flight. 

The  bride  came  as  the  day  dawned  red ; 
The  bridegroom  silent  lay — and  dead  ! 


Indifference. 

KARL  KNORTZ. 

WHERE'ER  I  gazed,  where'er  I  went, 
Were  falsehood,  sin  and  shame, 
And  every  lip  that  pressed  my  cheek 
A  Judas  kiss  became. 

The  earth  grinned  grim  in  ghastly  death, 
My  heart  was  bleak  and  bare  ; 

No  comfort  shone  to  meet  my  eye, 
The  world  was  full  of  care. 

67 


Give  me  once  more  the  tear-drop  soft, 
For  pain  and  pleasure  shed, 

For  without  love  and  without  hate 
Is  man,  though  living,  dead. 


The  King's  Daughter. 

KARL  KNORTZ. 

THE  royal  Princess,  dainty  bred, 
Arose  from  out  her  downy  bed. 

The  faithful  sentry  of  the  night 
Wide  ope'd  the  portal  for  her  flight. 

Beneath  the  linden's  quiet  shade 

Wrapped  in  Love's  dream  reposed  the  maid. 

A  longing  thrill  ran  through  her  frame — 
Why  tarried  he  for  whom  she  came  ? 

From  out  the  rocks — a  wondrous  sight — 
A  dwarf  appears  in  raiment  bright. 

"  A  messenger  of  love  I  come 
To  bear  thee  to  my  mother's  home." 

She  followed  on  in  thought  serene, 
To  where  she  meets  the  elfin  queen. 

' '  Mother,  behold  the  sweetest  bride 
That  eye  of  man  hath  ever  spied." 

68 


The  mother  spake  with  troubled  face — 
"  Return  this  maiden  to  her  place 

"  Before  the  morrow's  sun  shines  red, 
Or  else  three  lives  are  surely  sped." 

The  knight  who  failed  to  keep  his  word 
Cut  short  his  life  with  his  good  sword. 

The  maiden  died  with  love  and  shame, 
What  time  she  to  his  body  came. 

The  warder  kept  the  door  all  night 
Wide  open  till  the  morning  light ; 

And  when  the  Princess  still  did  fail 
Forth  to  the  King  he  bore  the  tale. 

And  when  the  King  the  tidings  knew 

With  his  own  brand  he  pierced  him  through. 


Springtide  Song. 

KARL  KNORTZ. 

ONCE  more  old  winter  furls  his  sails, 
His  mastery  is  sped  ; 
The  merry  birds,  with  cheerful  throat, 
The  joyful  tidings  spread. 

The  germlet  sprouts  beneath  the  sod, 
No  clouds  veil  heaven's  face  ; 

The  universe  with  welcome  glad 
Now  greets  the  spring's  embrace. 
69 


Sweet  sing  the  maids,  the  laddies  romp, 

The  vernal  joy  reflect ; 
From  man  and  nature  all  appear 

In  bridal  garb  bedecked. 


The  Story  of  Noah. 

AUGUST  KOPISCH. 


S  Noah  left  the  ark  one  day 

He  met  the  Lord  upon  his  way, 


Who  sniffed  the  offering's  savor  sweet, 
And  spake,  "  A  boon  to  thee  is  meet, 
And,  since  your  folks  are  pious  all, 
Ask  what  you  will,  it  shall  befall." 

Quick  answered  Noah  in  a  trice, 
"The  taste  of  water  is  not  nice, 
Since  such  a  lot  therein  are  drowned 
Of  sinful  men  and  fowl  and  hound  ; 
Indeed,  I,  wretched  sinner,  think 
I'd  like  some  other  sort  of  drink." 

Then  reached  the  Lord  to  heaven's  shrine 
And  gave  old  Noah  a  slip  of  vine, 
With  many  a  word  of  sound  advice 
To  guard  the  plant  of  Paradise ; 
At  thought  of  such  a  juicy  food 
The  old  chap  felt  all  over  good. 
70 


And  then  he  called  his  family, 
His  wife  and  children,  there  to  see  ; 
And  planted  vineyards  all  about — 
Old  Noah  was  not  a  stupid  lout ! 
Dug  cellars  deep  and  pressed  his  wine, 
And  stored  it  up  in  kegs  of  pine. 

A  pious  man  was  Father  Noah, 
He  tapped  the  barrels  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  for  the  love  of  God  he  drank, 
It  was  religion,  not  a  prank  ; 
And  after  that  the  flood  was  done 
He  drank  three  fifty  years  and  one. 

MORAL. 

A  prudent  man  can  clearly  see 
That  too  much  wine  can  never  be  ; 
And  that  no  Christian,  if  he's  good, 
Adds  water  to  the  ruddy  fluid  ; 
Because  in  water  once  were  drowned 
All  sinful  men  and  fowl  and  hound. 


W 


The  First  Spree. 

AUGUST  KOPISCH. 

HEN  from  the  wine-press'  bloody  store 
Old  Noah's  goblet  first  ran  o'er, 
There  clustered  'round  his  throne 
The  wives  and  babes  he  called  his  own  ; 
For  in  those  days  no  wine  was  known. 
71 


And  as  he  raised  the  cup  on  high 

They  watched  his  face  with  anxious  eye — 

He  placed  it  to  his  lip  ; 
And  touched  it  slowly  with  the  tip 
Of  tongue  ;  then  took  a  cautious  sip. 

He  emptied  one,  he  emptied  two, 
A  third  likewise,  and  felt  like  new — 

The  poor  old  thing  ! 
And  then  he  gave  a  lusty  spring, 
And  then  he  started  out  to  sing. 

'  Praise  God  ! "  he  cries,  and  leaps  again  ; 
'  Good  wine  befrees  from  every  pain." 

He  jumped  up  from  the  floor  ; 
'  Dear  wife,  how  good  I  feel  all  o'er ; 
Give  me,  I  prithee,  one  drop  more." 

But  soon  he  sank,  to  wine  a  prey, 
Unknown  the  strength  that  in  it  lay  ; 

But  nowaday 
The  world  knows  well  just  when,  and  where, 
And  how  much  each  can  sober  bear. 


Rudelsberg. 

FRANZ  THEODOR  KUGLER. 

HERE  rolls  the  Saal  its  golden  sands 

Rears  many  a  castle,  proud  and  tall ; 
But  roofless  stands  their  vacant  wall, 
The  winds  howl  through  their  empty  hall, 
The  clouds  pass  quick  to  far-off  lands. 
72 


No  more  are  heard  the  shield  and  spear, 
Their  chivalry  has  long  since  fled  ; 
But  where  the  wanderer  makes  his  bed, 
On  moss-grown  stones  rests  weary  head, 
Oft  loving,  tender  forms  appear  ! 

And  sparkling  eyes  beam  from  above, 
And  rosy  lips  with  smiles  assail ; 
The  traveler  views  the  distant  vale, 
Hears  'neath  the  stars  the  nightingale, 
His  heart  is  overflowed  with  love. 

And  when  he  starts  upon  his  way, 
The  parting  hour  doth  ring  at  last ; 
He  sings  farewell — the  gate  is  past, 
"  Adieu,"  is  murmured  on  the  blast, 
And  phantom  hands  wave  'kerchiefs  gay  ! 


Falling  Leaves. 

HEINRICH  LEUTHOLD. 

YE,  my  tender  songs,  wind-wafted, 
May  your  couch  be  on  soft  loam  ! 
Ye,  the  withered,  dying  leaflets, 
From  a  tree  that  ne'er  shall  bloom. 

Prophets  of  nigh  wintry  quiet, 
Faded  blossoms,  zephyr-sped, 

Fall  ye  softly — for  ye  cover 

Graves  of  many  a  hope  long  dead. 
73 


Forth  from  the  Days  that  are  no  more. 


HERMANN  LINGG. 


ORTH  from  the  days  that  are  no  more 
There  beckons  me  a  spirit  hand 

Like  greetings  in  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
When  withered  leaves,  a  spectral  band, 
Or  faded  ribbons  deck  the  strand. 

And  where  she  sang  to  me  the  lay 

That  filled  my  saddened,  ravished  soul, 

The  notes  themselves,  unconscious  stray, 
And  through  the  broken  chords  there  roll 
Deep  harmonies  no  hands  control. 


REMBLE,  ye  worlds,  for  I'm  the  Pest ! 


In  every  land  I  bide  ; 
My  fevered  glance  feeds  on  the  best, 
My  venomed  breath's  a  deadly  guest, 

And  black  my  robe  is  dyed. 

I've  come  from  Egypt's  far-off  land, 

Near  Nile's  dank,  slimy  flood  ; 
In  crimson  mist,  from  soggy  sand, 
I've  sucked  in  famine,  death  and  brand, 
And  bane  from  dragon's  blood. 


The  Black  Death. 


HERMANN  LINGG. 


74 


O'er  hills,  o'er  dales,  o'er  ocean's  wave 

A  desert  marks  my  track ; 
To  my  fell  staff  the  world  is  slave, 
Before  each  door  I  dig  a  grave, 

And  shroud  each  home  in  black. 

I  bring  dread  doom  to  nations  all, 

Where  peoples  die  amain ; 
The  brooks  dry  up,  the  rivers  fall, 
Grim  famine  holds  high  carnival ; 

I  follow  in  War's  train. 

Ye  fly  afar,  ye  hide  in  vain, 

Still  swifter  is  my  speed  ; 
Black  death  am  I,  of  rapid  stride, 
The  fastest  ships  less  quickly  glide, 

I  pass  the  fleetest  steed. 

The  merchant  bears  me  to  his  home 

Among  his  wives  and  slaves  ; 
He  feasts  and  jests,  but  then  I  come 
From  out  his  wares,  fierce,  crafty,  dumb, 
And  lay  them  in  their  graves. 

No  castle  stands  on  lofty  peak 

Too  high  to  be  my  food ; 
No  blood  too  young  my  force  to  break, 
No  soul  too  strong,  no  frame  too  weak, 

No  pious  heart  too  good. 


75 


He  in  whose  eye  my  glance  once  sped 

The  light  no  more  shall  see  ; 
For  whom  I've  blessed  the  wine  and  bread, 
He  hungers  with  the  dusty  dead, 

He  thirsts  at  rest  to  be. 

In  Tartary  the  great  Khan  died 
'Midst  India's  tears  and  groans  ; 

O'er  Samarcand's  and  Afric's  pride, 

In  Ispahan  at  eventide, 

The  dogs  fight  for  their  bones. 

Byzantium  was  a  lovely  town, 

And  Venice  full  of  bloom  ; 
Now  lie  their  folks  like  leaves  blown  down, 
And  e'en  the  gath'rer's  gloomy  frown 

Is  buried  in  the  tomb. 

Where  Norway's  rocks  their  terrors  shed, 

Within  a  haven  steep, 
I  cast  a  ship  with  crew  all  dead, 
My  breath  passed  by  above  their  head, 

All  sank  t'  eternal  sleep. 

In  yonder  town  all  lie  at  rest, 

All  days  and  nights  forgot ; 
No  ear  lists  to  the  hour's  hest, 
In  years  to  come  some  wandering  guest 

Will  find  a  plague-cursed  spot. 


76 


Home. 


HERMANN  LINGG. 

ONCE  more  I  saw  my  native  land, 
To  the  old  home  I  came  ; 
I  heard  its  songs,  I  breathed  its  air, 
And  yet,  'twas  not  the  same. 

The  brooklet  babbled  as  of  yore, 

The  roe  leapt  in  the  brake, 
The  vesper  bells  rang  soft ;  the  hills 

Were  mirrored  in  the  lake. 

I  viewed  the  cot  where  years  ago 

My  mother's  welcome  dwelt, 
I  saw  strange  faces,  all  unknown — 

A  bitter  pang  I  felt ! 

Methought  the  winds  and  waves  cried  out, 
"  Begone  for  evermore  ! 
For  all  that's  dear  has  passed  away  ; 
Thou  ne'er  shall  see  them  more." 


Since  Thou  all  too  soon  hast  left  Me. 

HERMANN  LINGG. 

SINCE  thou  all  too  soon  hast  left  me 
Rapture  ne'er  enjoyed  is  mine ; 
Ghosts  of  joys,  unknown,  untasted, 
Restless  in  my  soul  repine. 

77 


Unkissed  kisses  dwell  forever 
In  sad  hearts,  far,  far  away  ; 

On  the  severed  lips  still  tremble 
Words  no  living  tongue  dared  say. 


A  Book  of  Riddles,  weird  and  odd. 


BOOK  of  riddles,  weird  and  odd, 


Thy  face  beams  forth  to  me, 
Where  poems  of  rapture,  glow  and  love 
On  every  page  I  see. 

But  when  I  try  to  ken  the  sense 

Of  that  deep-hidden  lore, 
The  roguish  imp  within  thy  glance 

The  leaf  turns  slyly  o'er. 


'EN  in  his  cradle's  golden  bound 
i    The  Nation  greets  its  Prince  at  play ; 
For  'round  his  form  is  purple  wound, 
His  father's  throne  he'll  fill  some  day. 


FEODOR  LOEWE. 


Two  Kings. 


FEODOR  LOEWE. 


78 


In  calm  repose,  on  Genius'  breast, 
That  child  is  born  afar  from  strife 

Whose  muse  shall  sound  at  her  behest, 
Whose  name  shall  win  immortal  life  ! 

His  rank  and  glories  must  be  won, 
His  realm  from  rival  foes  defend ; 

A  crown  may  fall  from  sire  to  son, 

But  Fame's  bright  laurels  ne'er  descend  ! 


After  a  Century. 

HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LUNDESMANN). 

A CENTURY  soon  will  speed  away 
And  then  our  graves  no  man  can  find ; 
Our  names,  deeds,  wishes — old  Time's  prey, 
By  all  forgot  and  lost  to  mind. 

And  those  'fore  whom  we  trembling  feared 
And  envied  deep  their  fame  and  powers, 

Who  blazed  in  wealth  with  rank  revered — 
Their  dust  shall  disappear  like  ours. 

The  hopeless  dream  we  ne'er  enjoy, 
The  fortune  that  we  ne'er  attain, 

The  world  on  which  our  offerings  cloy, 
Forgetful,  thankless,  shall  remain. 
79 


The  Solution. 

HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LUNDESMANN). 


NIGMAS,  answerless,  we're  offered  twain, 
■    Whose  answer  through  a  third  we  may  ob- 


tain ; 

'Twixt  Life  and  Death,  grim-visaged,  gloomy, 
dark, 

Faint  flickers  wretched  man — the  suffering  spark. 


Life. 

HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LUNDESMANN). 

LOUD  peal  the  chimes  at  harvest  time, 
O'er  empty  church  for  matin  prayer; 
The  priest  is  busied  with  his  book, 
The  smoking  censers  fill  the  air. 

Long  'fore  the  day  the  farmer  takes 
His  way  afield — his  work's  severe ; 

The  thriving  corn  around  him  nods, 
The  rustling  wind  shakes  many  an  ear. 

Deep  sighs  the  priest — "  Alas,  oh  Lord! 

Who  seeks  thy  word  ?  Who  cares  for  thee? 
In  vain  thy  grace  seeks  sinners  vile — 

The  earth  can  ne'er  like  heaven  be ! " 

The  farmer  sighs — "  How  rich  our  store  ! 

How  full  our  vine-clad  acres  grow  ! 
Yet  hunger  ends  not  in  our  land — 

For  heaven  lives  not  on  earth  below !  " 
80 


The  Lover. 


HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LANDESM ANN) . 

SEIZED  my  rapier  from  the  wall 

And  sought  the  sombre  night's  deep  gloom ; 
I  knew  the  garden  where  she  roamed 

Who'd  plunged  my  heart  into  its  tomb. 

She  stood  beside  her  lover  new, 
Their  burning  kisses  interweave — 

I  raised  my  weapon  'gainst  the  thief 
Who  stole  my  bliss  at  hour  of  eve. 

He  spake  :  "  Why  dost  thou  silent  weep 
Yet  grant  me  all  thy  loving  soul  ?  " 

The  sword  towards  her  bosom  leapt — 
'Twas  almost  gone  from  my  control. 

She  sighed  :  "  Thou  art  my  love,  my  luck, 
And  he,  my  harm  and  my  disgrace, 

Yet  gladly  would  I  thee  repel 
To  die  in  tears  before  his  face. 

I  sorrow  sore,  with  hollow  peace, 

While  yet  his  living  grief  doth  burn." 

Now,  shining  blade,  full  well  I  know 

Within  whose  breast  thy  point  shall  turn ! 


6 


81 


The  Fatalist. 


HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LANDESMANN). 

I'M  fettered  fast  in  Fortune's  thongs, 
To  her  my  every  hour  belongs, 
My  wounds  and  spasms,  joys  and  songs 
All  that  I've  found  upon  the  road. 

From  earliest  days  my  steps  ordained, 
No  power  to  wield  my  will  remained, 
Such  was  my  fortune  ;  all  I  gained 
•  Hath  long  since  vanished  from  the  road. 

My  sorrows,  troubles,  griefs  and  wrong 
Must  help  the  world  to  get  along, 
And  e'en  the  joys  that  silent  throng 
To  meet  me  as  I  pass  the  road. 

But  sure  Til  blow  away  as  dust, 
Long  'fore  the  world  its  ending  must, 
All  crimes  will  sure  themselves  adjust, 
And  healing  find — upon  the  road. 


The  Better  World. 

HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LANDESMANN). 

THIS  world  is  sure  a  vale  of  tears 
To  man  who  pious  frauds  believes ; 
The  Soul,  though  anguished,  yet  conceives 
Its  power  mightier  still  appears. 

82 


Belief,  night-shrouded,  scarce  awake, 
A  better  life  can  only  hope  ; 
The  Soul,  whose  clear  eyes  widely  ope', 
A  better  world  itself  can  make. 


Man  and  Fate. 

HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LANDESMANN). 

FROM  hand  of  Fate  the  whirlwinds  fly, 
Mankind  sinks  deep  into  the  vale, 
Then,  like  a  withered  leaf  soars  high — 
The  leaflet  boasts  its  wings  prevail ! 


The  Two  Wanderers. 

HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LANDESMANN). 

TWO  wanderers  in  a  wood  profound 
Heard,  stroke  by  stroke,  the  axe  resound ; 

And  that  which  each  most  longed  to  own 
Rang  to  him  in  the  weapon's  tone. 

The  stalwart  said,  "  There  lies  the  strand 
They  build  a  ship  for  far-off  land." 

The  wearied  spake,  "  A  home  they  build 
By  hand  of  love  with  flowers  filled." 

And  through  the  tangled  thicket's  braid 
They  press,  when  lo  !  'twas  as  each  said. 
83 


They  build  a  bark  for  far-off  land, 
A  mansion  decked  by  loving  hand. 


Within  the  forest's  swamp  and  brake 
A  coffer  for  the  dead  they  make. 


The  Way  of  the  World. 


HIERONYMUS  LORM  (HEINRICH  LANDESMANN). 

rTy  HERE'S  naught  save  sin  and  sorrow 


Where'er  the  eye  can  press  ; 
There's  naught  throughout  Time's  cycles 
Save  parting  and  distress. 

And  yet  the  dream  of  Fortune 
And  Love  expands  on  high, 

Till  like  an  empty  bubble 
It  bursteth  in  the  sky. 


Forest  Peace. 

KARL  MAYER. 

ITH  reeds  and  rush  surrounded, 


The  placid  lakelet  sleeps. 
In  densest  glade  secluded, 
'Neath  golden  dragons  brooded, 

A  timid  roebuck  creeps. 


With  fairest  lilies  bounded, 


Oh,  be  not  shy  nor  wary, 
With  steps  so  light  and  airy, 

I'll  ne'er  work  harm  nor  kill ; 
I  breathe  the  woodland  pleasure 
That  God  grants  without  measure, 

Our  refuge  from  all  ill. 


Bach  Geleite. 

KARL  MAYER. 

NEVER  will  the  forest  sunder 
From  the  sedgey  brooklet's  spray, 
Though  age  chain  its  firmer  monarchs 

Many  a  sapling  breaks  away  ; 
Ash  and  willow  are  its  comrades 

Through  the  meadow's  green  expanse, 
Bound  their  friend  on  each  wet  margin 
To  yon  distant  village  manse. 


Begegnen. 

ALFRED  MEISSNER. 

GLEAM  of  silvery  light  behind  the  skiff 
Follows  in  stilly  night  the  watery  wa>  ; 

So  may  thy  presence  on  my  troubled  life 
Shine  o'er  its  gloomy  waves  with  sparkling 
ray. 


*5 


Though  every  beam  that  ripples  on  the  lake 
In  the  next  billow  sinks,  is  lost  for  aye ; 

But  from  my  inmost  soul  thy  glance  so  pure 
No  stormy  whirlwind  e'er  shall  tear  away. 


Night  on  the  Ocean. 

ALFRED  MEISSNER. 

OH  sea,  in  evetide's  glow, 
Beside  thy  placid  flood 
My  griefs  no  longer  flow  ; 

Once  more  I'm  pure  and  good. 

The  heart  in  flames  gives  o'er 
Its  struggles,  hourly  crushed; 

My  sorrows  sigh  no  more, 
To  softest  cadence  hushed. 

There's  scarce  a  tender  pain 

Glides  through  my  quiet  breast, 

Like  on  the  silent  main 
A  far  sail  gleams  at  rest. 


The  Apostate. 

ALFRED  MEISSNER. 

THE  anthems  for  the  dead  are  sung, 
The  old  Jew's  garb  in  grief  is  rent, 
And  yet  no  corpse  is  sunk  to  earth, 

For  she  still  lives  whom  they  lament ; — 
The  grave  awaits  her. 
86 


From  oldest  days  and  earliest  times 
The  Jews  such  saddening  custom  have 

That  one  who  leaves  their  father's  God 
They  count  as  dead,  and  dig  his  grave  ;— 
A  grave  awaits  her. 

In  Venice,  city  bright  and  gay, 
Upon  the  purple  flood  there  flies 

In  swift  gondola  a  soldier  fair, 

And  on  his  breast  the  Jewess  lies  ; — 
Her  grave  awaits  her. 

He  kisses  tresses,  lips  and  cheek, 
He  calls  her  his  true,  darling  bride  ; 

She  nestles  in  his  golden  hair, 

She  fondles  her  dear  love  with  pride ; — 
Her  grave  awaits  her. 

In  noble  halls,  at  banquets  rare, 

She  strikes  the  zither's  tender  chords, 

Till  wearied  deep  by  pleasure's  sway 
Refreshing  sleep  its  joy  accords  ; — 
Her  grave  awaits  her. 

Till  once  as  sped  a  dream  of  bliss 

The  day  dawn  broke,  she  'woke,  alone ; 

With  traitorous  flight  beyond  the  seas 
The  perjured  one  for  e'er  was  gone  ; — 
Her  grave  awaits  her. 


^>7 


She  tears  her  silky,  curling  locks, 

She  wanders  on  the  sea-beat'  shore, 
When,  lo  !  her  father's  words  return, 
"Accursed  be  thou  for  evermore, 
Thy  grave  awaits  thee." 

A  beggar  wench  on  Alpine  road 

Wends  homeward  way,  though  night  wind 
wild, 

Unwept,  within  a  steep  ravine, 

Unblessed  lies  tombed  her  ill-starred  child ; 
Her  grave  awaits  her. 

Th'  ancestral  graves  mourn  sad  in  dream, 
Who  breaks  their  stilly,  peaceful  rests  ? 

A  shadow  falls  on  churchyard's  walls, 
The  moonbeams  show  a  form  that  quests 
Her  grave  that  'waits  her. 

She  rolls  the  slab  from  off  the  tomb 
With  wearied  limbs  and  failing  breath, 

In  silent  prayer  she  lays  her  form 

Within  that  vault,  and  welcomes  death  ; — 
The  grave  had  'waited. 


Ich  fuhle  deinen  Odem. 

MIRZA  SCHAFFY  (BODENSTEDT) . 

1FEEL  thy  breathings  hover 
Where'er  my  footsteps  sway  ; 
I  see  thy  face  in  fancy 

Where'er  my  glances  stray. 
88 


Within  my  thoughts'  deep  billows 
Canst  thou  ne'er  sink  for  aye  ; 

For,  like  the  sun,  in  splendor 
Thou'lt  rise  at  dawn  of  day  ! 


Es  ist  ein  Wahn  zu  glauben. 

MIRZA  SCHAFFY  (BODENSTEDT). 

THEY  blunder  sore  who  think  a  man 
Is  by  misfortune  better  made  ; 
Forsooth  'twould  seem  as  though  the  rust 
A  trenchant  sword  hath  sharper  made ; 
Yet  dirt  calls  out  for  cleanliness, 
And  scum  hath  water  purer  made. 


Die  helle  Sonne  leuchtet. 

MIRZA  SCHAFFY  (BODENSTEDT) . 

THE  burnished  sunshine  blazes 
Where  the  broad  ocean  sways, 
And  all  its  billows  tremble 
Beneath  the  golden  rays. 

Thou,  like  the  sun,  art  mirrored 

In  ocean  of  my  lays, 
Whose  heavenly-glowing  surges 

Reflect  thy  dazzling  rays. 
89 


Ich  liebe  die  mich  lieben. 

MIRZA  SCHAFFY  (BODENSTEDT) . 

1LOVE  all  those  who  love  mc, 
And  hate  for  hate  I  send — 
Such  was  my  life-long  habit 
From  which  I  ne'er  shall  bend. 

To  men  of  force  and  valor 
Doth  this  belong  of  right, 

All  good  to  pay  with  kindness, 
All  evil  with  despite. 

We  love  what's  pure  and  noble, 
Soft  Beauty's  cheeks  are  woo'd 

The  germ  in  earth  we  cherish — 
We  crush  the  serpent's  brood. 

Dishonor  and  oppression 

None  brook  save  the  effete — 

A  woman's  charm  is  patience, 
To  man,  revenge  is  meet. 


An  Hour  before  the  Day. 


Slumber-bound  before  the  day, 

Near  my  window,  on  a  tree, 

Sang  a  swallow  loud  to  me, 

One  hour  before  the  day. 
90 


EDUARD  MOERIKE. 


S  I  once  in  summer  lay 


Listen  now,  to  song  I  sing, 
Sweetheart's  plaint  to  thee  I  bring, 
Whilst  her  griefs  deep  sobs  betray, 
Thou  at  ease  in  bed  dost  stay, 

One  hour  before  the  day. 

Alas,  my  friend,  sing  thou  no  more, 
Alas,  thy  plaint  thou  must  give  o'er, 
Flee  thee  to  thy  leafy  nest, 
Love  and  Truth  are  dreams  at  best, 
One  hour  before  the  day. 


The  Dreaming  Lake. 

JULIUS  MOSEN. 

HE  tranquil  lake,  in  deep  blue  dream, 
Rests  covered  o'er  by  lilies  fair ; 

Ye  twittering  birds,  forbear  to  scream — 
Wake  not  the  waves  that  slumber  there ! 

The  zephyrs  gently  droop  and  bend 

In  tender  thoughts  o'er  murmuring  reeds  ; 

But  where  the  highest  heavens  extend 
A  soaring  falcon  lonely  speeds. 


Solitude. 

WILLIAM  MULLER. 

IKE  to  a  gloomy  cloudlet 


That  floats  in  sunset's  glow, 
When  in  the  fir  trees'  summits 
The  weary  night  winds  blow 


I  walk  along  life's  pathway 
With  heartsick,  heavy  feet, 

Alone,  'midst  all  that's  cheery, 
Alone,  with  none  to  greet. 

Alas,  thou  breeze  so  tranquil! 

Alas,  thou  world  so  bright ! 
When  storm  and  tempest  battled 

Less  wretched  was  my  plight ! 


The  Birch  Tree  bows  and  shakes 
her  Head. 

WILHELM  OSTERWALD. 

THE  birch  tree  bows  and  shakes  her  head 
Like  to  a  bride  in  pain. 
On  the  brown  mead  she's  filled  with  dread 
Lest  spring  ne'er  come  again. 

She  broods  in  longings  o'er  the  moor, 
Her  snow-white  garments  glow. 

Fain  would  she  seek  on  distant  shore 
A  solace  for  her  woe. 

Her  locks  swing  loosely  on  the  air, 
Seized  by  the  tempest's  breath ; 

Oh  pallid  birch,  wild  flies  thy  hair 
Above  the  dark -brown  heath. 


92 


May. 

WILLIAM  OSTERWALD. 

NOW  bloom  the  vales,  the  hills  are  green, 
In  balmy  breeze  of  May, 
The  lark's  wild  song,  the  sunlight's  sheen, 
Around  the  welkin  play. 

Let  all  that  liveth  chant  the  praise 

In  bud,  in  song,  in  leaf, 
Come,  love,  now  let  us  greet  the  days 

Of  spring,  devoid  of  grief. 

True  love  enraptured,  oft  in  dream, 

Can  tender  thoughts  express, 
From  eye  to  eye  can  passion  gleam 

In  silent  happiness. 


Gloomy  Solitude. 

BETTY  PAOLI. 

WHEN  mother  sick  upon  her  death-bed  lay, 
The  world  around  her  altered,  day  by  day. 

First  came  the  doctor's  'hest,  "  Remove  all 
flowers ; " 

Her  love  and  solace  in  her  happier  hours. 

Then  to  the  light  of  day  was  entrance  banned — 
To  give  the  sick  one  rest  and  ease  'twas  planned. 
93 


Then  came  the  priest  to  shrive  the  dying  heart, 
From  out  the  chamber  must  her  child  depart. 

So  from  all  earthly  joys,  in  progress  slow 
Her  spirit  breathed  its  last,  life's  empty  show. 

From  me  have  vanished  fragrance,  love,  and 
light, 

Death's  footsteps  I  await  in  gloomy  night. 


Mein  Lieb  ist  das  Bachlein. 

GUST  A  V  PFARRIUS. 

MY  darling  is  a  brooklet 
That  through  the  woods  doth  run, 
It  bubbles  'midst  deep  shadows, 
It  sparkles  in  the  sun. 

I  stand  beside  its  margin, 

I  view  its  waters  play, 
No  mirror  e'er  was  clearer, 

No  rill  could  purer  stray. 

Afar  upon  the  hillside 

Its  greeting  I  behold, 
It  shimmers  in  the  brambles 

Like  silver  trimmed  with  gold. 

And  when  with  leaves  bestrewen 
It's  hidden  from  my  gaze, 

I  hear  its  rippling  murmurs 
Its  fountain's  gurgling  lays. 
94 


In  darkest  gloom  enshrouded 
Its  tones  still  reach  my  ear, 

It  babbles  of  soft  longings, 
Of  home,  forever  dear. 


Es  hat  die  Nachtigall. 

LOUISE  VON  PLOENNIES. 

THE  nightingale  hath  sung  its  lay, 
And  died  of  the  sweet  note  ; 
Smothered  in  tones  that  round  her  stray, 
In  death  hath  burst  her  throat. 

The  taper's  light,  with  glowing  ray, 
Burns  from  an  inward  flame  ; 

And  thou,  my  heart,  consumed  away, 
Thou  too  hast  felt  the  same. 


The  Song  of  the  Noma. 

LOUISE  VON  PLOENNIES. 

BEAUTEOUS  maiden,"  sang  the  Noma, 
"  Have  a  care  of  ocean's  waves  ; 
All  its  foam-flecked  rolling  billows 
Are  but  foam-flecked  ocean  graves." 

"  Nay,  my  future  glows  like  sunset, 
Royal  purple  roll  their  crests, 
Flowing  like  a  monarch's  raiment 
Where  the  sun  as  diadem  rests." 
95 


Joyful  song  comes  from  the  castle, 
Joyful  cries  sound  from  the  land  ; 

On  the  bounding,  rapid  billow 

Nears  the  kingly  bride  the  strand. 

Favoring  breezes  bend  the  canvas, 
England's  standard  dances  wild, 

Softly  fanned  by  laughing  zephyrs 
Smiles  in  dream  the  royal  child. 

Yet  before  that  eve  was  ended, 

Helpless,  stormbeat,  rides  the  bark ; 

Ocean's  vast  and  yawning  chasms 
Shadow  forth  Death's  pinions  dark. 

Then  she  wrings  her  hands  so  tender, 
Looks  deep  in  the  angry  wave  ; 
"  Scarce  begun,  thy  course  is  run, 

Lost  the  dream  my  young  love  gave. 

"  Had  I  but  one  trusty  envoy — 

Rock  or  billow,  lightning's  ray — 
That  would  seek  my  darling  bridegroom 
And  a  million  greetings  say ; 

"  Oft  as  starry  hosts  that  glitter 
On  the  azure  tent  of  night, 
Oft  as  rosebuds  in  green  meadows 
Blow,  and  bloom,  and  glow  in  sight." 


96 


Now  the  jaws  of  dark  abysses 
Open  wide  with  thunder  loud, 

And  the  stormy  billows  bury 

That  fair  form  in  their  dark  shroud. 

High  on  rocky  summit  seated 

Looks  the  young  king  on  the  sprays ; 

Bring  ye  yet  to  me  no  tidings 

Where  my  dear-loved  bride  delays?  " 

See  !  there  rolls  the  corpse,  storm-beaten, 
Where  the  waves  their  wild  war  wreak, 

Whilst  the  ocean  gently  murmurs 
Words  the  maid  in  death  did  speak. 

Had  I  but  one  trusty  envoy — 
Rock  or  billow,  lightning's  ray — 

That  would  seek  my  darling  bridegroom 
And  a  million  greetings  say." 

From  afar  the  Nome's  song  soundeth 
O'er  the  ocean's  stilly  waves  ; 

All  the  foam-encircled  billows 
Are  but  foam-encircled  graves." 


Dirge. 

PRANGER. 

IVE  to  Death  his  booty  won, 
Worms  the  food  they  crave, 

Soul  will  never  mold  nor  rust, 
Sleeps  not  in  the  grave. 

97 


There  will  rest  a  wearied  frame, 

May  earth  lightly  lie  ! 
Let  us  bless  the  dead,  and  joy 

That  we,  too,  must  die. 

Brethren,  see,  in  peace  he  sleeps  ; 

Let  no  lament  ring, 
Cease  your  tears  and  mournful  plaints, 

Victory's  anthem  sing  ! 
Heaven's  champion  !  On  God's  breast 

Soft  will  be  his  bed  ; 
O'er  his  clay  we'll  plant  to-day 

Roses  at  his  head. 

Harvest  of  immortal  life  ! 

God  whom  we  revere  ! 
Soon  our  fated  day  must  come, 

Death  will  cry,  "  Appear  !  " 
Firm  in  voice,  reply,  "  Prepared  ;  " 

He  who,  living,  gave 
All  his  thoughts  to  heaven  on  high 

Need  not  fear  the  grave ! 


The  Imperial  Graves. 

G.  RAPP. 

WHY  wake  the  monks  the  Abbot  Lark  ? 
"  Go  to  thy  church  with  speed,  and  hark — . 
Deep  tones  the  chant  from  throats  long  dead, 
Bright,  flashing  fires  flame  overhead, 
And  at  the  darkest,  drear  midnight, 
The  painted  windows  blaze  with  light." 
98 


He  listens,  trembles,  says  his  prayers, 
Then  hastens  to  the  altar  stairs ; 
A  pale-faced  youth,  with  scanty  breath, 
Bathed  deep  in  blood,  seems  nigh  to  death ; 
The  goblin  monks  around  him  moan, 
Pour  out  their  plaints  with  tear  and  groan. 

He  cries,  "  Come  forth,  my  fathers  all, 
Take  your  last  son,  who  now  doth  call," 
Then  rattles  and  rustles  beneath  the  stones, 
Th'  escutcheons  clash  o'er  the  moldering 
bones, 

Bediademed  heads  peer  forth  in  the  gloom, 
"  What  seek'st  thou  here  in  the  dusty  tomb?" 

"  They  buried  me  here  in  sore  disgrace, 
With  scorn  and  insult  to  my  face ; 
Altho'  I  died  with  sword  in  hand — 
This  grave  of  shame  I  cannot  stand. 
I  seek  my  regal  tomb ;  e'en  there 
My  German  truth  shall  consort  bear." 

Then  rises  the  first  Hohenstauffen  old 
From  'neath  the  stones,  so  gray  and  cold. 
He  opens  his  paternal  arm 
To  fold  his  last  son  safe  from  harm 
Who  sobs  upon  his  manly  breast, 
And  shares  in  peace  his  Hero-rest. 


99 


To  Heaven  ascend  the  grievous  woes, 

Each  tomb  in  silence  deep  doth  close, 

The  Abbot  to  the  altar  hies, 

With  the  sacred  host  where  the  dead  man  lies, 

And  the  monkish  choir  in  ghostly  tone 

Sing  requiem  sad  for  the  last  bold  son. 


Mein  Liebchen  ist  kein  Stoltzes  Schloss. 

OSCAR  VON  REDWITZ. 

MY  darling  is  no  castle  high, 
With  columns  rich  complete, 
Whose  casements  blazoned  in  the  sky 
Proud  cavaliers  oft  greet. 

It  is  a  chapel  in  a  dell, 

Where  vines  and  roses  stray  ; 

Where  tones  a  solemn,  silvery  knell, 
In  solitude  I  pray. 


So  lang  mein  Himmel  heiter  blauet. 

OSCAR  VON  REDWITZ. 

WHILST  heaven's  fair  brow  remains  serene, 
I'll  think  not  on  its  cloud  ; 
Whilst  'midst  my  locks  no  gray  is  seen 
My  head  shall  bloom  unbowed. 

IOO 


Do  flowers  foreknow  their  fate  untimc 
When  first  their  burgeons  stray  ? 

The  star  that  flames  in  night  sublime 
Its  death  in  sunlight's  ray  ? 


What  is  Love  ? 

EMIL  RITTERSHAUS. 

ASKED  the  sunbeam,  "  What  is  love?" 

Its  answer  shone  in  burnished  ray  ; 
I  asked  the  roses,  "  What  is  love?" 

They  breathed  perfume,  but  naught  did 

I  asked  the  heavens,  "  Pray,  what  is  love? 
"  Is't  holy  earn'st,  is't  toying  life?  " 
I  never  asked  the  question  more — 
For  God  did  grant  a  loving  wife. 


A 


At  Midnight. 

JULIUS  RODENBERG. 

ANKIND  in  peace  reposes, 

Sleeps  with  the  winds  and  woods  ; 

The  dewdrops  on  the  roses 
Roll  down  in  glassy  floods. 

The  silvery,  glistening  moonlight 
On  every  roof-tree  breaks  ; 

In  the  wide  world  at  midnight 
There's  naught  save  I  that  wakes. 

IOI 


My  joys  and  pangs,  unnumbered, 
Save  one,  are  lulled  to  rest ; 

One  thought  that  ne'er  hath  slumbered 
Stands  sentry  in  my  breast. 

Thy  image  peaceful,  tender, 
In  time  and  space's  my  theme  ; 

A  song  at  noontide's  splendor, 
At  dead  of  night  a  dream. 


Before  the  Doors. 

FREDERICK  RUECKERT. 

WHERE  riches  dwell  I  knocked,  but  knocked 
in  vain, 

A  copper  from  the  window  thrown  was  all  my 
gain. 

I  tried  to  steal  into  the  cot  where  Love  abode, 
But,  earlier  still  than  I,  a  dozen  were  in  my 
road. 

I  gently  tapped  at  Fame's  tall  castle,  bright, 
"  We  only  open  here  to  lord  and  knight." 

I  sought  the  roof-tree  that  protects  the  poor, 
Within  were  sobs,  and  wails,  and  lament  sore. 

In  vain  I  asked  where  did  Content  abide, 
But  none  there  was  who  knew  it,  far  and  wide. 
102 


But  yet,  I  know  a  house,  for  aye  secure, 
Where  at  the  last  I'll  lightly  tap  the  door. 

Within  its  bound  dwells  many  a  noble  guest, 
For  many  a  thousand  in  the  grave  there's  rest. 


The  Churchyard  Ride. 

FRIEDERICH  RUPERTI . 

WITH  unchecked  rein  my  charger  strode 
Where  stilly  dead  by  myriads  rest ; 
Behind  me  howled  the  shrieking  blast, 
A  shrilly  threnody,  unblest. 

And  as  I  sped  my  maddened  way 
The  levin  blazed  upon  my  sight — 

The  gravestones  pale,  in  thickening  throng, 
'Midst  the  tall  trees,  in  dusky  night. 

A  whisper  reached  me  from  the  firs, 
A  voice  upon  the  storm  was  borne  ; — 

"  Ride  fast  and  far,  yet  soon  thou  must 
Lie  here,  a  corpse,  cold  and  forlorn." 


Death  in  Light. 

LUDWIG  SCHEERER. 

IN  mantles  flecked  with  white  and  gray 
The  moths  fly  'round  the  taper's  ray ; 
The  glimmer  nods  and  seems  to  greet — 
They  die  within  the  peril  sweet. 

103 


Driven  from  realms  of  dusky  night, 
Consumed  by  raging  thirst  for  light — 
'Twere  worth  the  death  upon  that  pyre 
To  bathe  once  in  that  sea  of  fire. 


By  Night. 

ERNST  SCHERENBERG. 

NIGHT  falls;  the  earth  lies  dreaming, 
In  earnest  silence  move 
In  highest  heaven  bright-gleaming 
The  stellar  hosts  above. 

Night  falls  ;  in  isolation 

The  stilly  stars  before 
My  soul  waft  desolation 

That  shines  from  days  of  yore. 


The  Fir  Tree. 

GEORG  SCHEURLIN. 

A LONELY  fir  stands  silent 
Upon  a  hillside  gray  ; 
Within  a  skiff  a  laddie 

Rocks  up  and  down  at  play. 

Engrossed  in  thoughts  deep  musing 
The  old  fir  dreams  on  high ; 

The  laddie  pets  the  billow 
That  foams  as  it  flits  by. 
104 


"  Speak,  fir  tree,  on  yon  hillock, 
Thou  comrade  old  and  dark, 
Why  dost  thou  gaze  eternal 
So  sombre  on  my  bark  ?  " 

Then  stirred  the  branches  mournful 
That  gloomy  fringed  the  tree, 

And  in  light,  trembling  murmurs, 
Afar  off  thus  spake  he  : 

"  Because  the  axe  now  seeks  me 
Thy  coffin's  wood  to  make  ; 
On  thee  I  think,  my  laddie, 
I'm  saddened  for  thy  sake." 


Happy  Death. 

GEORG  SCHEURLIN. 

COULD  I  die  within  thy  eyelids, 
In  thy  heart  my  burial  be  ! 
Thou  shouldst  'herit  soul  and  body, 
Truth  alone  remain  for  me. 

Knowledge,  deep  and  long-desired, 
Naught  to  crave  or  to  attain, 

Save,  in  holy  self-negation, 

Peace  in  thy  calm  soul  to  gain. 

Let  mine  be  the  pangs  of  flowers, 
In  thy  tender  pleasures  sped, 

Withered,  but  upon  thy  bosom, 
Constant,  true,  lie  sweetly  dead  ! 
io5 


Contentment;  a  Triolet. 


KLAMER  SCHMIDT. 

WELCOME,  all  ye  petty  pleasures ! 
'  Great  ones  are  for  me  too  great ; 
Seated  in  the  lap  of  Fate. 
Welcome,  all  ye  petty  pleasures  ! 
Here  I  covet  realms  nor  treasures, 
Here  I  live  in  modest  state. 
Welcome,  all  ye  petty  pleasures, 
Great  ones  are  for  me  too  great. 


Discontent. 

ADOLPH  SCHULTS. 

jrj^WAS  but  this  morn  in  wordy  strife 
X     I  scolded  my  sad  fate ; 

How  small  my  role  was  here  in  life, 
While  others'  was  so  great. 

Through  storm  and  wind  there  passed  by 

With  naked  foot  and  head, 
With  drooping  mien  and  greeting  shy, 

A  child  that  begged  its  bread. 

1  gave  him  alms,  and  as  he  spoke 
His  thanks  with  joy  profound, 

Repentance  sore  and  shame  burned  deep 
Within  my  bosom's  bound. 

1 06 


The  Captive. 


GUSTAV  SCHWAB. 


E'LL  rescue  the  captive,  his  fetters  we'll 
rend, 


We'll  bring  him  his  freedom,  our  good 

loving  friend." 
So  shouted  and  clamored  with  menaces  loud 
'Fore  the  castle's  wall  the  angry  crowd. 

The  firebrands  caught  on  the  turrets  and 
floors, 

The  knights  and  the  nobles  were  driven  out 
doors, 

The  masters  and  servants  were  slaughtered 
amain, 

In  pantry  and  wine  vaults  fierce  rushed  the 
mad  train. 

They  broached  the  deep  cellars,  they  guz- 
zled the  wine, 

In  slumbers  deep  drunken  on  earth  did 
recline, 

In  bestial  indulgence  the  tables  did  choke 
And  rose  well  refreshed  as  the  third  morn- 
ing broke. 

107 


"  Where  is  the  poor  prisoner?  How  spends 
he  his  day  ? 
Why  sits  he  not  with  us  to  banquet  and 
play  ? 

Let's  hunt  him,  good  brethren,  bring  help 

to  your  friend, 
The  iron-bound  door  of  his  dungeon  let's 

rend." 

His  corpse,  smoke  smothered,  upon  the 
ground 

By  the  fire  they'd  reveled  about  they  found  ; 
Despised  and  neglected,  'midst  ashes  and 
flame, 

The  embers'  forked  tongues  licked  his  evil- 
starred  frame. 

But  it  pleased  the  rabble  about  just  as  well, 
And  they  left  him  to  molder  and  rot  where 
he  fell ; 

Then  roistered  and  shouted  each  over  his 
can, 

"  How  well  we've  avenged  the  innocent  man  !" 


The  Dead  Soldier. 

J.  G.  SEIDL. 

ALONE  in  a  foreign  land 
A  soldier  there  lies  dead, 
Unknown,  and  long  forgotten 
How  true  he  fought  and  bled. 
108 


There's  many  a  jeweled  knight 
Rides  o'er  the  warrior  brave, 

There's  never  a  one  to  place 

A  cross  o'er  his  nameless  grave. 

For  many  a  hero  slain 

There's  prayer  and  gentle  tear, 
But  ne'er  a  word  is  said 

O'er  the  bones  that  molder  here. 

But  away  in  a  far-off  village, 
When  the  dreary  day  is  sped, 

A  father  there  sits,  by  anguish  racked, 
Who  moans,  "  He  is  surely  dead." 

A  mother,  spent  with  weeping, 
In  sobs  doth  God  implore ; 
"  He  sent  us  a  greeting  from  heaven 

When  the  old  clock  stopped  at  four." 

A  maid  with  lorn,  blanched  visage 
At  twilight  views  the  sky, 
"  E'en  if  he's  dead  and  buried 

In  my  heart  he  shall  never  die." 

They  pour  out  their  souls'  best  treasures 

In  tears  to  God  above, 
For  the  poor  forsaken  hero 

The  tribute  of  true  love. 

109 


The  drops  are  upraised  to  heaven, 

In  cloudlets  reach  the  sky, 
They're  carried  swift  to  the  distant  land 

Where  the  soldier's  bones  do  lie. 

Their  tears  from  heaven  are  showered 
As  a  dew  on  the  warrior's  breast, 

Lest  he  alone,  of  none  bemoaned, 
In  a  far-off  land  should  rest. 


Love. 


KARL  SIEBEL. 


T 


HE  slumbering  earth  beheld  in  sleep 
All  hope  was  lost,  all  pleasure  fled  ; 

Oppressed  in  dreams  by  longings  deep, 
With  grief-struck  heart  and  heavy  head, 


The  care-worn  earth,  in  drowsy  doze, 

Mourned  hope  and  pleasure  in  their  grave ; 

With  dazzling  crown  the  sun  uprose 
A-sudden  from  the  stilly  wave. 

The  earth  awoke  in  trembling  dread, 

Bathed  in  the  sunshine's  quickening  ray ; 

With  the  first  beams  upon  them  shed 
The  buds  burst  forth,  the  larks  sang  gay ! 
no 


Undeception. 


KARL  SIEBEL. 

WHOE'ER  would  have  thought 
So  boiling  a  stream 
As  thick,  glassy  ice 

In  winter  could  gleam  ! 

And  a  circlet  of  gold 

That  a  finger'd  scarce  fill, 

Might  lie  on  the  soul 

Like  a  stone  from  a  mill? 

That  a  glorious  day 

A  stormy  night  brought, 

To  sicken  the  heart — 

Whoe'er  could  have  thought  ? 


The  Peace  of  Home. 

AUGUST  SILBERSTEIN. 

O  purer  joy  on  earth  exists 

Than  when  the  day's  wild  course  is  run 
Beneath  thy  roof  to  rest  thy  soul 

With  peaceful  heart  at  set  of  sun. 

The  crush,  the  crowd,  the  brawling  host, 
Before  thy  threshold  war  in  vain, 

Within  thy  doors  there's  naught  can  harm, 
The  world  of  home  is  thy  domain. 


Joy  Through  Tears. 


C.  J.  P.  SPITTA. 

DENSE  clouds  obscure  the  welkin, 
So  thick  and  gray  they  fly, 
And  gloomier  grow  the  cerements 
Above  the  clear,  blue  sky. 

Joy  from  thy  heart  hath  vanished, 
As  storms  o'erhang  the  day, 

Thy  soul,  'neath  nameless  tortures 
In  shadow  sinks  a  prey. 

Away  the  tempest  rusheth — 
How  bright  the  heavens  appear ! 

Once  more  thy  glee  returneth — 
Hast  thou  too  shed  a  tear  ? 


Night's  Consolation. 

C.  J.  P.  SPITTA. 

MOURN  no  more,  thou  saddened  child, 
Mourn  no  more,  thy  life  so  young; 
Many  a  pleasure  must  run  wild, 
Many  a  grief  be  sadly  sung. 

Doth  the  day-dawn  beauteous  break, 
Far-off  colors  sparkling  blend  ; 

Mourn  no  more  if  night  o'ertake, 
Starry  heaven  is  still  night's  friend. 

112 


A  Song  of  Woe. 


ADOLPH  F.  GRAF  VON  SCHACH. 


EILED  in  the  densest  darkness 


y      Shines  forth  the  light  of  day, 
Orb  after  orb  ariseth, 

For  me  no  sunbeams  play. 

My  troubled  glance  in  twilight 
On  far-off  worlds  doth  gaze  ; 

In  heaven  a  star  is  twinkling 
With  lonesome,  mournful  rays. 

A  maiden  looks  down,  pallid, 
With  hands  that  beckoning  say, 
"  See,  I  am  here  before  thee — 
Wherefore  dost  thou  delay?  " 


The  Watch  Tower. 

HEINRICH  STIEGLITZ. 

HE  flame  flashes  fierce  by  the  wild  whirlwind 


lashed, 

Its  billows  around  the  red  tower  are  dashed, 
The  meadow's  expanse  under  darkness  of  night 
Glows  deep  with  dense  fire,  an  ocean  of  light. 

A  signal  of  danger  the  sentry  so  brave 
By  ringing  the  tocsin  unweariedly  gave  ; 
O'erwhelmed  by  their  terror  his  children  loud 


"  Oh,  save  thyself,  father!  Oh,  quick  let  us  fly  !  " 


cry  : 


8 


But  louder  and  faster  outtones  the  dread  bell ; 
On  turret  and  casement  the  flames  flicker  fell  ; 
"  And  till  my  last  sinews  are  wearied  out  quite, 
There's  nothing  shall  stay  me  to  act  out  my 

plight." 

The  hurricane  rages,  the  billows  fierce  glower, 
And  higher  and  higher  surmount  the  tall  tower, 
Loud  roars  the  deep  thunder,  th'  alarum  bell 
falls, 

The  warder  lies  buried  beneath  the  crushed 
walls. 


Spring. 

AUGUST  STOEBER. 

THE  heart  and  neck  of  the  blooming  rose 
Sad,  gloomy,  buds  surround  ; 
For  they'll  surely  burst  when  the  sunlight  glows 
Revealing  their  hidden  wound. 

The  lonely  earth  cannot  bear  its  bliss, 

The  blessing  of  heaven's  breath  ; 
For  a  sacred  love  plants  a  holy  kiss 

That  'tokens  the  seal  of  death. 


114 


The  City. 

THEODORE  STORM. 

THE  gray  sea  breaks  on  cold,  gray  strand, 
The  city  sleeps  near  by  ; 
The  mists  above  the  roofs  expand, 
The  billows  roar  on  either  hand, 
A  drowsy  lullaby. 

The  wood  is  still ;  although  'tis  May 

No  songster's  warbling  speeds  ; 
The  shrill  geese,  swift  from  polar  ray 
Fly  but  in  autumn's  sombre  day, 
The  wild  wind  bends  the  reeds. 

Yet  hangs  my  whole,  whole  heart  on  thee, 

Gray  city  by  the  sea  ! 
For  youthful  glamour,  plain  to  me, 
Smiles  lovingly  o'er  thee,  o'er  thee, 

Gray  city  by  the  sea ! 


Consolation. 

THEODORE  STORM. 

SO  let  all  happen  that  fortune  may, 
So  long  as  thou  livest,  to  me  'tis  day. 

And  when  I  wander  the  world  so  wide 
'Tis  ever  home  when  by  thy  side. 

And  when  I  gaze  on  that  lovely  brow 
No  future  shadows  can  vex  me  now. 
"5 


The  Dead. 


THEODORE  STORM. 

THIS  burden  is  for  me  too  deep, 
That  still  the  sun  shines  forth  sublime  ; 
That,  as  before  thy  death  untime 
The  clocks  still  run,  the  bells  still  chime, 
And  day  and  night  their  vigil  keep. 

And  when  the  twilight  hour  is  o'er 
The  evening  brings  our  rendezvous, 
Alas,  the  place  that  found  thee  true 
Is  occupied  by  lovers  new — 

Thy  moldering  form  is  missed  no  more. 

While  through  the  iron-latticed  tomb 

The  moonbeam's  rays,  so  grim  and  scant, 

Upon  thy  coffin  sweep  aslant ; 

Like  saddened,  mournful  ghosts  they  haunt 

Where  rests  thy  sepulchre  in  gloom. 


Doubt. 

THEODORE  STORM. 

BELIEF  can  give  a  soothing  rest, 
Yet  ne'er  a  step  will  forward  mortals ; 
Doubt  in  a  virile  thinker's  hand 

Will  rend  aside  hell's  sombre  portals. 
116 


Song  from  Immensee. 


THEODORE  STORM. 

HERE  on  the  sloping  hillside, 
The  breeze  hath  died  away  ; 
The  bushes  droop  in  clusters 
Where  sits  a  child  at  play. 

Half  buried  in  bright  flowers, 
Half  hid  in  sweet  perfume, 

The  bees  and  flies  buzz  'round  her, 
And  glisten  in  the  gloom. 

Afar  off  laughs  the  cuckoo — 

A  thrill  smites  through  my  breast ; 

The  forest  queen  hath  clear,  blue  eyes, 
Their  sheen  hath  wrecked  my  rest! 


Frau  Hilda. 

MORITZ  GRAF  VON  STRACHWITZ. 

RAU  HILDA  sate  in  Thura's  hall, 

Her  maidens  by  her  side  ; 
King  Egbert  lay  at  Fyriswall, 

His  wounds  were  deep  and  wide. 

Now  tell  to  me,  ye  damsels  bright, 
What  strikes  outside  the  pane?  " 

'Tis  a  blind  bat,  in  zigzag  flight, 
Tossed  by  the  hurricane." 

117 


"  Nay,  'tis  no  bat,  with  errant  wing, 
Whom  fire  and  home  entice, 
Tis  the  falcon  white  of  my  lord,  the  king, 
Stormbeat'  'midst  sleet  and  ice." 

"  Now  tell  me  quick,  my  damsels  good, 

What  stamps  on  the  drawbridge  beneath  ?  " 

"  'Tis  the  wolfish  brood,  from  the  howling  wood, 
That  champs  its  hungry  teeth." 

"  Nay,  'tis  no  starving  wolf,  I  trow, 

That's  followed  the  herd  to  the  fold  ; 
King  Egbert's  steed  stands  there  in  the  snow, 
And  whinnies  and  tramps  in  the  cold." 

"  For  God's  sake,  tell  me,  my  maids,  I  implore, 
What  clashed  in  yon  darkened  hall  ?  " 

"  'Twas  a  rusty  brand,  from  the  days  of  yore, 
That  fell  from  its  nail  on  the  wall." 

"  No  falchion  fell  from  a  rusty  nail, 
'Tis  a  lie,  false  maid  that  thou  art, 
'Twas  the  ghost  of  my  Egbert  that  gave  its  last 
wail — 

The  cry  has  gone  forth  from  my  heart." 

Frau  Hilda  fell  dead  on  the  floor  of  stone, 

The  sword  was  rent  in  twain — 
The  charger  expired  with  grievous  groan, 

And  the  hawk  burst  in  through  the  pane. 
118 


The  maidens  all  moldered  to  dust ;  deep  gloom 
Reigned  over  that  castle  once  gay  ; 

The  falcon  flew  shrieking  through  the  room 
And  beat  out  the  taper's  ray. 


Sie  hat  den  ganzen  Tag  getobt. 

MORITZ  GRAF  VON  STRACHWITZ. 

LL  day  in  wrath  the  sea  hath  raged 


And  roared  with  angry  breast, 
Then  glassy-mirrored,  stilly,  smooth, 
Had  sunk  in  sleep  to  rest. 

The  evening  zephyrs  tremble  light, 

In  holy  silence  stray, 
The  breath  of  God  from  heavenly  home 

Is  wafted  o'er  the  sea. 

He  stoops  to  kiss  the  dear-loved  head 

Of  ocean  slumbering  mild, 
And  speaks,  in  gently  rustling  winds, 
"  Sleep  soft,  thou  wayward  child." 


Aus  dem  Grabe. 

DAVID  F.  STRAUSS. 

HILST  thou  consumed  by  sorrow 


Waked  all  that  night  in  bed, 
Within  my  grave,  in  slumber  sweet, 
The  first  night  o'er  me  sped. 


Weep  not  for  me,  true  comrade, 
Restrain  affliction's  flood, 

Believe  me,  that  the  earth  ne'er  lies 
Too  heavy  on  the  good. 

Afar  from  sultry  noontide, 
Afar  from  noise  and  strife, 

The  cool  and  stilly  graveyard 
Is  better  far  than  life. 

My  will  bursts  from  my  bosom 
And  grows  to  slender  trees ; 

My  consciousness  in  flowers 
Sheds  perfume  on  the  breeze. 

O'er  where  the  grave  is  deepest 
A  lily's  stem  doth  bend  ; 

From  'midst  the  dead  'tis  offered 
By  me  to  thee,  dear  friend ! 


Evensong. 

JULIUS  STURM. 

HE  day  stoops  to  its  ending,  the  stilly  night 
draws  near; 

Ye  weary  hands,  be  rested,  your  work  is  ended 
here. 

1 20 


But  thou,  my  soul,  fierce  struggle,  thyself  from 

earth  to  free ; 
Wing  forth  thy  flight,  be  lightened,  deep  in 

God's  bosom  flee. 

On  high,  with  trusting  pinions,  flies  love,  with 

faith  and  hope, 
Where  o'er  the  saddening  grave  mounds,  the 

gates  of  heaven  ope. 


Rest. 

JULIUS  STURM. 

PILLOWED  in  soft,  yielding  mosses, 
Rapt  in  dreams  the  clouds  I  view  ; 
Whilst  my  fancies,  flesh  untrammelled, 
Soar  above  the  welkin  blue. 

Resting  gently  in  calm  silence 
Far  away  the  dim  world  lies ; 

Nothing  stirs  save  love's  pure  breathings 
Wafted  to  the  holy  skies. 


The  Sea  at  Eve. 

JULIUS  STURM. 

THE  gulls  fly  o'er  the  haven 
As  eventide  falls  low, 
The  smooth  and  glassy  mirror 
Reflects  the  sunset's  glow. 

121 


The  clouds  are  gray  that  hover 

Upon  the  ocean's  crest, 
In  fog  and  mist,  the  islands 

Dream  on  the  waters'  breast. 

I  hear  the  marshy  moanings, 

Mysterious,  yet  serene — 
A  bird  shrieks,  shrill  and  lonely, 

Above  the  tranquil  scene. 

A  gentle  shudder  passeth 

Then  hushed  and  calm,  all  sleep — 
Whilst  from  the  far-off  distance 

The  faintest  murmurs  creep. 


The  Sweetest  Songs. 

JULIUS  STURM. 

THE  sweetest  songs  are  ever  those 
For  which  no  word  is  found, 
Around  whose  tender,  airy  limbs, 
No  garb  of  rhyme  is  wound. 

The  notes  of  deepest  melody 
When  wafted  in  our  breast 

Will  ring  and  press  with  magic  force 
To  those  who  love  us  best. 


122 


Welcome  Rest. 


JULIUS  STURM. 

THE  placid  ocean  sleeps,  the  storms  are  fled, 
The  heavens,  so  clear,  with  starry  hosts  arc 
bright ; 

Now  rides  at  anchor,  in  a  haven  safe, 

The  rescued  bark,  secure  from  danger's  might. 

Oh,  let  me  thus,  when  troubles  rend  no  more, 
Safe  anchored,  rest  upon  thy  bosom  kind, 

Look  from  thy  heart  upon  thy  beauteous  face, 
And  in  thine  eyes  my  only  heaven  find  ! 


The  Wild  Huntsman. 

LUDWIG  TIECK. 

THE  demon  huntsman  in  gloomy  night 
From  densest  thicket  speeds  his  flight ; 
He  hears  the  whirlwind,  he  rouses  in  scorn, 
He  takes  his  dogs  and  his  roaring  horn. 

With  the  lightning's  might  he  bestrides  his 
steed, 

O'er  the  trembling  forests  he  rides  with  speed  ; 
Loud  whinnies  the  charger,  the  trumpet  re- 
sounds, 

Loud  halloo  the  huntsmen,  deep  bellow  the 
hounds. 

123 


"  Come  on,  my  comrades  ;  come  one  and  all ; 
The  field  is  ours  when  night  doth  fall, 
To  fleetest  of  spirits  that  mortal's  a  prey 
Who  shudders  or  turns  from  our  sport  in  dis- 
may." 

They  ride  like  the  tempest  on  wings  of  the  wind, 
A  terror  to  pious  and  God-fearing  kind, 
Though  he  who  dreadeth  nor  forest  nor  night, 
In  turmoil  of  goblins  may  find  his  delight. 


The  Mermaid. 

A.   RITTER  VON  TSCHABUSCHNIGG. 

BESIDE  a  lonesome  ocean's  strand 
There  sits  a  mermaid  fair, 
Half-hidden  in  the  sedgey  ooze 
And  half-exposed  to  air. 

With  solemn  mien  and  saddened  eye 
She  scans  the  mad  sea's  flow ; 

Full  many  a  wreck  sinks  'fore  her  gaze, 
She  heareth  many  a  woe. 

The  raging  whirlpools  lave  her  feet 

Beneath  the  rugged  cliff ; 
And  nigh  at  hand  to  the  dreaded  land 

For  life  strives  sore  a  skiff. 

124 


The  tempest  roars,  the  billows  dash, 

The  gulls  shriek  in  the  sky  ; 
But  shrill  rings  o'er  the  whirlwind's  crash 

A  weird,  uncanny  cry. 

The  song  she  sings  hath  a  gentle  tone, 
But  the  heart  groweth  pale  at  its  sound  ; 

For  he  who  heareth  it  knoweth  full  well 
Misfortune  is  hovering  'round. 


The  Midnight  Cavalier. 

JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

IN  the  night  so  stilly,  moonless, 
'Neath  my  window,  near  yet  far, 
Stood  he,  while  with  voice  enchanting, 

Sang  love  songs  to  his  guitar. 
Oft  with  rivals,  bold  and  manly, 

Hath  he  drawn  in  many  a  fight, 
Till  the  hollow  walls  reechoed 

And  the  rapiers  glowed  with  light. 
Faithful  he  to  every  duty 

Cavaliers  owe  to  their  dame 
And  my  heart  burned  in  my  bosom — 

Yet  I  knew  not  of  his  name. 
Trembling  from  my  lofty  window 
Shy  I  glanced  at  break  of  day, 
Naught  I  saw  where  stood  my  lover — 
Naught  save  blood  on  tree  and  spray. 
125 


Autumn. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

WELCOME,  all  the  joys  of  spring, 
Golden  sun  and  heaven  so  blue  ! 
Yonder  in  the  gardens  ring 

Tender  chords  from  bosoms  true. 


Speak,  my  soul !  Hast  thou  forgotten 
Summer  songs  and  joyous  themes  ? 

See  the  trees  are  withered,  rotten — 
Ah  !  they  were  but  beauteous  dreams. 


Peasant  Life. 

JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

IN  summer  woo  thy  sweetheart  dear, 
In  garden  or  a-field  ; 
The  sunshine's  longest  of  the  year, 
The  mild  nights  pleasures  yield. 

To  bind  the  tie  all  lovers  know 
Is  best  'fore  winter's  days  ; 

One  can't  philander  in  the  snow 
Beneath  the  moon's  cold  rays. 


126 


Near  By. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

1TRIP  into  thy  garden, 
Sweet  love,  wherefore  so  late? 
This  solitude  so  dreary 
The  night  moths  animate. 

And  yet  in  varied  fullness, 
The  flowers  in  myriads  blow, 

And  with  their  mellow  fragrance 
The  zephyrs  fan  my  brow. 

I  feel  thy  presence  near  me, 
The  path  deserted  glows ; 

Like  far  above  the  welkin 
Th'  unseen  doth  repose. 


Wood  Song. 

JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

I'M  free  and  happy  in  the  woods, 
No  fear  of  robbers  feel ; 
A  loving  heart  is  all  my  goods, 
And  that  no  thief  would  steal. 

What  trips  and  rustles  'midst  the  grass  ? 

Do  murderers  swords  unsheath  ? 
My  sweetheart's  footsteps  this  way  pass — 

She  pets  me  most  to  death. 

127 


Night. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

I LOOK  where  lies  her  stilly  home 
That  leans  upon  a  tree ; 
In  dreams  of  sweetest,  glowing  love, 
In  peaceful  rest  sleeps  she. 

I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  sky 

Where  storm  clouds  veil  the  night ; 

Yet  'neath  the  pall  of  sombre  dread 
The  full  moon's  sheen  is  bright. 


Recognition, 


A 


JOHANN  NEPOMUK  VOGEL. 

WANDERING  Bursch  with  staff  in  hand 
Comes  home  at  last  from  foreign  land. 

With  dust-beflecked,  and  visage  brown, 
Who  first  will  know  him  in  his  town? 

He  entered  through  the  Gothic  gate, 
The  warder  idly  loitering  sate. 

A  friend  once  dear  in  youth  was  he, 
In  many  a  game  and  many  a  spree  ; 


But  he  no  more  to  friends  is  known, 
His  face  too  dark  and  brown  is  grown. 
128 


With  greeting  brief  he  kept  his  way 
And  onward  through  the  streets  did  stray. 

His  bride  betrothed  looks  on  the  street ; 
"  My  beauteous  maid,  'tis  thee  I  greet." 

But  to  the  maiden  he's  unknown — 
His  face  too  dark  and  brown  is  grown. 

With  saddened  step  he  takes  his  way, 
Down  that  bronzed  cheek  the  salt  tears  stray. 

His  mother  leaves  the  old  churchdoor ; 

He  speaks  :  "  God  save  you  " — and  no  more  ; 

But  see  !  the  mother  knows  her  boy  ! — 
"  My  son  ! "  she  shrieks,  and  faints  from  joy. 

Though  dark  and  brown  his  face  is  grown 
To  mother's  eye  he's  ever  known. 


Tranquil  Water. 

RICHARD  VOLKMANN. 

I FAIN  would  seize  the  ocean's  foam 
And  hold  the  wave  in  rapid  flight; 
Yet  in  the  jug  I  carried  home 

There's  naught  but  stilly  water,  bright. 

Sweet  songs  bloomed  deep  within  my  brain, 

Of  odors  full,  like  flowery  mead ; 
Yet,  o'er  my  lips,  I  saw  with  pain, 
Nothing  save  empty  words  proceed  ! 
9  129 


The  Phantom  Ship. 

OSKAR  L.  B.  WOLFF. 

THE  billows  are  whipped  by  the  lash  of  the  storm, 
The  bark  struggles  sore  with  their  might, 
The  lightning's  red  ray  blazes  bright  through 
the  gloom, 
The  heavens  are  curtained  in  night. 

And  all  that  has  life  on  the  tempest-tossed  ship, 
Is  bound  to  the  shrouds  and  the  mast ; 

Misfortune  betide  the  unfortunate  wight 

Who's  lost  when  the  storm  wave  has  passed  ! 

The  breakers  foam  over  the  ocean-swept  decks, 
They  surge  o'er  the  ship  to  the  sea ; 

And  he  who  is  carried  away  in  the  brine 
Deep-buried  forever  must  be. 

Yet  stronger  and  fiercer  the  raging  winds  howl, 

All  canvas  is  rent  by  the  gale ; 
There's  no  one  who'll  dare  in  the  rigging  to 
climb 

To  take  in  the  death-dealing  sail. 

Still  wilder  and  wilder  the  hurricane  blows, 

The  mainmast  falls  over  the  side, 
Red,  yellow  and  white  glares  the  lightning's  fell 
flame, 

The  billows  are  lit  far  and  wide. 
130 


The  ship's  boats  are  broken  when  rolled  that 
steep  wave ; 
They  cry  and  they  tear  out  their  hair ; 
There's  praying,  there's  cursing,  for  naught  now 
can  save, 
The  crew  all  give  way  to  despair. 

Then  hissed  the  red  bolt  o'er  the  waves  once 
again, 

A  rough,  rocky  cliff"  frowns  on  high  ; 
While  close  to  the  tempest-tossed,  storm-weary 
bark 

A  ship  in  full  canvas  sails  nigh. 

They  hail  and  they  signal,  they  fire  their  guns, 
Still  nigher  and  nigher  they  keep  ; 

But  soon  it  grows  plainer — oh,  scene  of  affright! 
'Tis  the  phantom  ship  of  the  deep  ! 

For  the  ship  was  black,  and  her  masts  were  black 

And  her  sails  coal-black  as  death, 
And  the  Evil  One  steered  at  the  helm,  and 
laughed, 

And  mocked  at  their  failing  breath. 

The  thunder  roars  loud  and  the  lightnings  fierce 
flash, 

While  a  saddening  shriek  rends  the  sky, 
Of  cursing,  of  praying,  of  deepest,  fell  dread, 
As  the  phantom  ship  sped  by. 

131 


The  sun  shines  soft  on  the  stilly  sea 
When  the  earliest  dawn  doth  stray, 

The  waves  roll  over  in  glassy  peace, 
While  the  flying  fishes  play. 

No  sound  is  heard,  or  of  prayer,  or  of  dread, 
Naught  swims  on  the  surge's  smooth  crest ; 

For  e'en  at  the  moment  the  phantom  drove  by 
All  sank  in  the  ocean's  dark  breast. 


The  Fisher  and  His  Love. 

LUDWIG  WUCKE. 

AN  old  and  mold'ring  fisher-boat 
Lies  'midst  the  sedge  unseen  ; 
Grim  death  long  years  the  fisher  smote, 
His  skiff  with  grass  is  green. 

He  dreams  beneath  the  calm,  blue  mere, 

Of  days  that  are  no  more, 
The  cottage  that  once  stood  so  near, 

Where  dwelt  his  love  of  yore. 

And  oft  he  rose  from  out  the  gloom 
When  moonshine  gilds  the  lake, 

To  row  the  skiff  'midst  frothing  spume, 
But  ne'er  a  word  he  spake. 

132 


O'er  hollow  sands  his  steps  resound, 

Among  the  dunes  he  weeps, 
But  ne'er  his  sweetheart  shall  be  found — 

Beneath  the  wave  she  sleeps. 


The  Maiden  on  the  Strand. 

LUDWIG  WUCKE. 

BARQUE  bounds  o'er  the  billows, 


While  breezy  zephyrs  blow ; 
A  maid  sits  by  the  ocean 
And  weeps  with  weary  woe. 

From  eyes  of  heavenly  azure 

The  burning  tears  distill, 
Amidst  her  golden  tresses 

The  wild  wind  whistles  shrill. 

She  wrings  her  hands  in  anguish  ; 
"  Forever  must  we  part ! 
Oh,  God  in  heaven,  have  mercy  ! 
Oh,  spare  my  bleeding  heart !  " 

The  trembling,  blenched  form  totters, 
Slow  comes  the  laboring  breath, 

And  on  the  sandy  dune-heaps 
'Twas  lonely,  still  as  death. 
i33 


Eine  Hand  voll  Erde. 

DUST  and  earth  a  handful 
Heap  upon  my  breast, 
When  of  strife  aweary 

Sinks  my  soul  to  rest. 
Ne'er  a  grief  can  enter 

In  the  grave's  cold  walls  ; 
Death  will  guard  my  slumbers 
Till  Jehovah  calls. 

Dust  and  earth  a  handful 

Shall  more  holy  be, 
Than  the  proudest  mansion 

Decked  with  tapestry. 
'Round  my  path  hath  wandered 

Many  a  bitter  smart, 
Many  a  grievous  burden 

Bowed  my  loving  heart. 

Dust  and  earth  a  handful 

Be  my  lot  at  last, 
Though  with  deep  affliction 

Is  my  life  o'ercast, 
Poverty  oppress  me, 

Riches  be  my  share, 
Nobleman  or  outcast — 

There  I'll  nothing  care. 


i34 


Dust  and  earth  a  handful 

Must  suffice  below, 
Worms  I'll  give  a  banquet — 

That  full  well  I  know ; 
But  in  death  there's  quiet, 

And  all  sorrows  cease, 
Never  more  be  troubled, 

Ever  rest  and  peace. 

Dust  and  earth  a  handful 

Throw  above  my  head, 
Friends  heartsick  and  longing, 

Sorrow's  teardrops  shed. 
Had  I  but  one  faithful 

Who  in  sore  distress 
Oft  would  seek  my  grave  mound, 

Light  God's  earth  would  press. 


Servian  Folk-Song:  The  Experiment. 


HAT  are  those  sounds  of  import  dire  ? 
The  shrieking  fowls — do  bells  sound  fire  ? 


No  cocks  do  crow — no  fires  impend — 
A  captive  sister  for  ransom  doth  send. 

"  My  brother,  the  Turk  hath  made  me  his  slave  ; 
From  his  brutal  hand  my  freedom  I  crave. 
The  ransom  they  ask  is  quickly  told — 
Two  bushels  of  pearls,  three  libras  of  gold." 

l35 


But  the  brother  sends  answer  back  again  : 
"  My  gold  I  need  for  my  charger's  rein, 
With  the  pearls  my  sweetheart's  form  I'll  deck, 
That  she  prettier  be  when  I  kiss  her  neck.'' 

But  the  sister  returns  a  message  of  scorn  : 
"  No  menial  slave  am  I,  all  forlorn, 
No  fear  have  I  my  fate  to  hide — 
For  the  Sultan  hath  chosen  me  for  his  bride." 


H 


The  Booman. 

ANS  LUNKENBEIN  in  market  sold, 

Three  stately,  well-fed  kine, 
He  pocketed  a  heap  of  gold 

And  drank  a  stoup  of  wine. 

Quickly  a  knave  behind  him  slunk, 

Who'd  seen  the  money  paid, 
And  to  obtain  it  from  the  boor 

His  plans  as  quickly  made. 

But  Hans  watched  well  his  glittering  store, 
The  thief  it  ne'er  could  touch ; 

'Twas  deep  within  his  pockets,  and 
His  hands  did  safe  it  clutch. 

Now  he  had  finished  out  his  wine 

And  rose  refreshed  to  go ; 
Sly  Nichol  followed  in  his  wake 

For  booty  lying  low. 

136 


The  way  was  short  and  Hans  to  home 

At  last  in  safety  came  ; 
And  told  his  luck,  and  chinked  the  purse, 

And  kissed  his  rustic  dame. 

And  joyful  cried  he  to  his  wife, 
"  See  what  a  lot  of  gold — 
Bring  out  your  best,  let's  eat  and  drink, 
And  revel  ere  we're  old." 

They  roistered  and  made  merry  then, 
The  coin  they  chinked  and  spun ; 

The  knave  looked  through  the  window  pane, 
And  wished  'twas  ready  won. 

"  Come  now,  my  little  child,"  said  Hans, 
"  With  some  you  too  shall  play." 
And  with  the  word  they  move  the  cloth 
And  clear  the  things  away. 

With  gluttonous  greed  they  feast  their  eyes 

And  count,  and  sip  their  wine ; 
The  rascal  at  the  window  sighed — 
"  Oh,  if  it  were  but  mine." 

E'en  little  Paul,  the  peasant's  child, 

Had  of  the  fun  some  share  ; 
And  counted,  clanged,  and  spun,  and  rolled 

The  ducats  from  the  fair. 


37 


So  went  the  fun  till  midnight  hour 

Tolled  out  in  accents  deep ; 
The  peasant  fain  would  close  his  purse 

And  'take  himself  to  sleep. 

This  did  not  please  young  Master  Paul, 
He  would  the  coins  retain. 
44  'Tis  for  to-night,"  the  father  said, 
"  Next  day  we  play  again." 

The  wayward  brat  still  fain  would  play, 
In  wrath  the  mother  spoke — 
44  Quick  give  them  to  me  else  you'll  feel 
This  rod's  sharp,  biting  stroke." 

But  Hans  felt  troubled  for  his  son, 
And  quietly  did  say, 
"  Dear  wife,  I  think  I'll  work  this  thing 
In  quite  another  way." 

He  ope'd  the  window,  crying  loud, 
44  Come  give  them  to  me,  Paul, 
For  if  you  do  not  do  it  quick 
The  Booman  gets  them  all." 

But  Paul  clenched  tight  his  little  fist 
44  You  can't  come  that  on  me." 
Cried  Hans,  44  Come  Booman,  now  we'll  give 
The  gold  and  purse  to  thee." 


138 


He  holds  the  bag  beyond  the  sill — 

Like  cat  upon  a  mouse 
Sly  Nichol  darted  on  his  prey, 

And  vanished  from  the  house  ! 


The  Beggar  Beadle. 

IN  youth  I  lived  in  poverty,  in  hunger,  thirst  and 
need, 

No  money  had  I  in  my  purse,  no  one  bade  me 

"  Godspeed," 
I  bore  my  trusty  walking  stick  and  got  what  food 

I  may, 

And  fumbled  o'er  my  rosary  and  prayed  the  live- 
long day. 

And  as  I  marched  along  my  road,  to  Heidelberg 
I  came, 

The  beggar  beadle  drove  me  off  with  many  a 

word  of  shame ; 
He  drove  me  up  and  down  and  'round  through 

many  a  street  and  lane, 
Oh  you  infernal  beadle  man,  pray  let  me  still 

remain. 

And  as  I  came  before  the  house  where  beggar 

beadle  dwelt, 
He  poked  his  head  the  window  out  and  mocked 

my  ragged  pelt ; 

i39 


I  peeped  up  at  the  casement  just  where  stood  his 

pretty  dame, 
And  cried,  "  Confound  you  beadle  man,  her  beauty 

should  you  shame." 

Fierce  anger  shook  the  beadle  then  as  I  his  wife 
did  view 

And  into  dungeon  damp  and  dark  my  aching 

bones  he  threw ; 
In  prison  cell  on  scanty  fare  I  groaned  my  life 

away — 

Oh  heartless,  wicked,  cruel  man,  the  same  to  you 
some  day ! 

And  when  you  die  and  go  to  shame  may  you  no 
burial  find, 

No  Christian  friend  shall  dig  thy  grave,  nor 

mourn  shall  kith  nor  kind, 
In  living  tomb  on  scanty  fare  your  life  shall  waste 

away 

Where  light  of  sun  shall  never  shine  e'en  on  the 
brightest  day. 

Come,  comrades  now,  be  merry  all !  the  beadle 

.  now  is  dead  ! 
Upon  the  gallows  hang  his  bones,  the  crows  roost 

on  his  head ; 
Last  Tuesday  in  the  morning  while  the  bells 

were  chiming  eight, 
They  led  the  beadle  to  his  doom  and  hanging 

was  his  fate ! 


140 


His  pretty  wife  with  cuffs  and  blows,  he  nigh  to 

death  had  brought, 
Because  with  tender  mercy  she  upon  the  poor 

had  thought. 
Last  week  the  cursed  beadle  man  gave  up  his 

wretched  life — 
To-day  I  own  his  house  and  lands  and  kiss  his 

pretty  wife  ! 


141 


